


Mobile

by Jaeh, Shwatsonlocked



Series: Mobile [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Minor Anderson/Sally Donovan, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shwatsonlocked/pseuds/Shwatsonlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson’s on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... “Text Received from Sherlock Holmes.” Not a Sherlock-Comes-Back fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by two of the most brilliant and disturbing minds in the history of Sherlock. Oh wait, no, that’s Gatiss and Moffat.  
> Co-written by two tumblr Sherlockians who met on Omegle and started a co-writing love affair. By shwatsonlocked and scribblesonapage. Multi-chaptered. We accept sobs and laughs as reactions to this fic, comments and reviews are also welcome. Thanks for reading!

John didn’t know why he was doing this. Scratch that, he knew perfectly well why he was holding his mobile right now, preparing to text Sherlock. It was late afternoon, the sun sitting lower and lower in the sky. The ex-army doctor thought he could hear the strings of Sherlock’s Stradivarius being scratched as the Consulting Detective once abused them. It was just a phantom memory now.    
  
Three weeks. No, two weeks, six days and nine hours since Sherlock had died. His therapist had given John a _bloody horrible_ task of texting Sherlock’s non-existent number whatever he wanted to tell him. It was so he could work through the grief, like telling a dead man secrets would help, like it would get to Sherlock somehow, in some way.  
  
He knew it wouldn’t.  
  
 _Sherlock’s dead._ The words echoed in his head, and the fall replayed in his mind over and over again. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, and started tapping away on his phone.  
  
 **S**  
  
He hesitated, thinking it was stupid that he was actually going to do this. Was he really going to text a dead man’s number to make himself feel better?  
  
John picked up the phone, and continued typing.  
  
 _Delete. Type. Delete._  
 **H**  
  
What was he going to say? _Hi, Sherlock, sorry you’re dead, I miss you_? John sighed, and briefly entertained the notion of throwing his phone across the room. He glanced again at the phone. He started typing again, determined to finish this time.  
  
 **I believe in Sherlock Holmes.**  
 **JW**  
  
He peeked down at the pale screen of the mobile, took a deep breath and hit send. _There,_ John thought. _That should make my therapist happy._  
  
\----  
  
Sally suddenly looked up, and Anderson moaned in protest as she disengaged from their kiss. “Aren’t you going to get that?”  
  
“What?” Anderson asked, glancing around the Yard’s forensic lab. They weren’t supposed to be in there after hours, much less snogging each other’s brains out by the mass spectrometer. He leaned in and started nuzzling Sally’s neck again.  
  
“Your phone. It beeped.” Sally pushed him away with a sigh. “It could be your wife.”  
  
Anderson could hear Sally’s disdain in the way she drew out ‘wife.’ Briefly looking heavenward, the ERU head walked to his desk and glanced at his mobile. No message.  Shrugging, Anderson turned back to look at the curly haired woman.  
  
“It wasn’t mine that went off.”  
  
“Well, it weren’t mine that beeped, so whose was it?”  
  
Moira Anderson started a little, and squeezed his eyes shut in dismay. He remembered the third phone in the room. A phone that shouldn’t be receiving any texts. Running a pale hand through his hair, he glanced at Sally who was tapping her foot impatiently on the vinyl floor.  
  
Anderson’s hand hovered over the metal handle of the top drawer. Surely it was just a message gone astray, a wrong number. He grabbed the handle and pulled, revealing the phone of Sherlock Holmes. He’d plugged the scuffed iPhone in to charge because he was curious what the freak had stored on the device. Anderson pressed the home button and frowned at the identity of the sender.  
  
“Hold on, isn’t that the freak’s mobile? Why do you have it?” Sally’s voice was closer than before, she’d moved around to hover over his shoulder.  
  
The name was familiar, too familiar. He slid his thumb across the bottom of the glass, unlocking the mobile. It was the same as the message spray painted on a few local buildings.  
  
 _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._  
 _JW_  
  
“Send a reply.”  
  
The forensic officer jerked around, blues eyes wide and spluttered  “Are you crazy? Do you know what kind of mess that would start?”  
  
“I dare you to text back. If you don’t want to, fine, but I’m going home.” Sally headed to grab her things but he grabbed her arm.  
  
“No, I’ll...” Anderson trailed off. _Why not?_ Some dark recess of his mind asked. _It’s not like you’re friends. It’ll be revenge for how Holmes always threw your failing marriage and affair with Sally in your face._ He skimmed through some of the previous texts to understand how the dead man would respond.  
  
“Alright, I’ll send a response. Happy?”  
  
Sally looked as if Christmas had come early, grin threatening to swallow her face.  Shaking his head, Anderson began to text.  
  
\---  
  
After sending Sherlock’s missing phone that final message, John had flicked the telly on, hopeful for a distraction. Stories about Sherlock were few and far between now, but watching crap telly just reminded him how the genius man had deduced every show John watched, and so he turned the television off and sat in the silence. When the doctor’s phone beeped, he thought it would just be his sister Harry checking up on him again, or maybe Lestrade.  
  
 **Text Received from Sherlock Holmes.**  
  
This time, John didn’t resist the urge to throw his mobile. There was no way, no possible way he had an unread message from _bloody Sherlock Holmes’ phone_.  
  
Sherlock’s phone had been missing from the moment Sherlock said ‘Goodbye John.’  
  
So what was _that?!_  
  
Wetting his bottom lip, John marched over to where the Nokia N97 had landed, snatching it up and selecting the message inbox.    
  
 **Thank you, John.**  
 **SH**  
  
John gaped in disbelief. As he stared at the text, his phone beeped again, and a second line of text appeared.  
  
 **Sorry I’ve been...away.**  
 **SH**  
  
John typed furiously. It was almost like he wanted to punch holes through the mobile.  
  
 _Sending message..._  
  
\---  
  
 **Whoever you are, this is not funny. The owner of the phone you’re holding is dead. Who the bloody hell are you?**  
 **JW**  
  
Sally was peering over Anderson’s shoulder to read the text. “Not very friendly right now, is he?” she drawled.  Before he could stop her, Sally was sending a reply.  
  
 _It’s me, John._  
 _SH_  
  
Anderson scrambled to get the phone back. Once it was back in his possession, he looked at the inbox. Each black letter in the message ate at him, stared into his soul. What kind of person was he, playing on the emotions of a man who’d lost his best friend? Although he’d abhorred working with the ‘consulting’ detective, John Watson didn’t deserve this.  
  
Anderson wasn’t going to continue pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.  
  
He typed his next words carefully.  
  
 _Actually, no it’s not. It’s Anderson. I know it was a mean joke._  
  
As he awaited what was sure to be an irate text, or _maybe Watson would move on from texting all-together_ , Anderson looked at Sally with a withering glare.  
  
“I think we’re done today, Sally. Not in the mood anymore.”  
  
Sally scoffed and picked up her bag and coat. “Whatever, Anderson. I’ll just hit a pub then.”  
As soon as she’d exited, Holmes’ phone beeped with a new message from Watson.  
  
 **Anderson, I am going to shoot you.**  
 **JW**  
  
The forensic chief panicked. Being shot had not been on his agenda for the night. He had to explain, hopefully the ex-army doctor would let him. He began sending messages frantically.  
  
 _The Yard made me do it!_  
  
 _It was a dare. Just a dare._  
  
 _I have a bulletproof vest!_  
  
Another bubble of text from John appeared on the screen.  
  
 **That’s it. I’m calling Greg.**  
 **JW**  
  
Anderson had the sudden urge to jump off the building too. This prank of Sally’s was going to get his arse handed to him.  
  
 _NO! Please don’t, I’ll do anything! We can discuss this._  
  
 **And just what do you think I’d want from you? Especially after this.**  
 **JW**  
  
The forensic officer rubbed both hands over his eyes. He couldn’t believe that he was going to talk about this. He’d sworn he would never mention the report discrepancies to anyone, not when there had been witnesses to the fall.  
  
 _I’m about to tell you something and I better not regret it._  
  
 _There were...problems with some of the evidence from St. Bart’s._  
  
 _What did you hear?_  
  
 **What do you mean hear? I SAW SHERLOCK BLOODY JUMP!**  
 **JW**  
  
Anderson winced. _Yes, good job Moira. Just keep putting your foot in your mouth. That’ll keep him from tracking you down and shooting you._  
  
 _...Oh, yes, they did tell me you were there._  
  
 _John, there were some... anomalies._  
  
 **I swear to God Anderson, if you're having me on...**  
 **JW**  
  
 _I’m not. The blood patterns were close but they weren’t right for that fall. He might have had some freaky way of getting out alive._  
  
\---  
  
The mobile slipped from John’s fingers and fell on the floor with a thud.  
  
Sherlock was alive.  
  
But John watched him die. It was impossible  
  
He picked his phone up and dialled Anderson's phone.  
  
"Repeat what you just said, Anderson." John immediately said when the man picked up. "Repeat it. Tell me you're lying."  
  
“The blood patterns are wrong.” Anderson said, steel in his voice. He scoffed. "Contrary to what you and Sherlock believe, I am actually bloody well good at my job."  
  
John exhaled, and closed his eyes. This could not be real. Sherlock would not do that. Sherlock was not that huge of an arse that he would let John suffer for _three. fucking. weeks_ thinking that he was dead.  
  
No, Sherlock would actually do that.  
  
“So there’s a chance that he’s...alive?” John asked, his voice breaking. He closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He was not going to break down, not now, not ever. This wasn’t news to him, that Sherlock was alive. He always held out hope that he was alive.  
  
Who was he kidding. Hell, he saw it with his own eyes and -  
  
\- no. Not breaking down, not ever. He would see this through, whether Sherlock is alive or not.  
  
Anderson continued. “I don’t know. Maybe. I did wonder why the funeral was close casket - Molly does a great job on cases like this.” John winced at the insensitivity, but Anderson apologized.  
  
John sighed. “Mycroft said Sherlock wanted...” His eyes lighted up in realization. “Bloody big-nosed penguin. I’m going to kill him.”  
  
“John, I’m taking a huge risk telling you this. Things are quiet around here, when it comes to Sherlock’s death. I’m not sure what happened. Someone’s trying to sweep things under the rug. There’s something wrong about all this.”  
  
John clenched his fist. Who was trying to cover it up? _Why_ would anybody try to cover it up? Everyone believed his best friend was a fraud. There _must be_ a reason someone didn’t want anyone to look too closely, but _what could it be?_  
  
“Even if the man was a fucking bastard, he was good.” Anderson continued. “I would never admit it to anyone in the Yard, of course. But he was. Hell, I didn’t want him to be fake. But the evidence pointed otherwise.”  
  
“You doubted him.” John reminded him with gritted teeth. “You and Donovan practically turned the whole Yard against him.” He closed his eyes, trying to get back his anger under control.  
  
“Processing evidence is my job, and everything pointed to him. What should I have done, fake it?”  
  
John didn’t answer. He was thinking, mulling over and playing with idea that wormed itself into his head. _Sherlock might be alive. He might be in danger._  
  
The feelings he had during the war were back. He felt like everywhere he went, there was someone watching him. It wasn’t paranoia. He told his commanding officer once, and they found terrorists eyeing them through scopes in the building adjacent to their position.  
  
John trusted his instincts. He was in danger. And that meant Sherlock might be in danger too.  
  
He could try to find Sherlock. But how? How do you find dead men?  
  
 _You die. You die yourself._  
  
His mind was racing, could he do this? Die for Sherlock? The answer was immediate.  
  
“Anderson, I need your help.” John said. He exhaled. Even he couldn’t believe he was going to say this, much less ask Anderson for help, but needed to do this. After these words, there was no turning back. “I need to die.”       
  
There was a pause on the other end of the line. John waited for comments on his sanity, and Anderson did not disappoint him. “What?! Are you insane? Have you gone mad?”  
  
“I want... no, I _need_ to find Sherlock and I can’t do that ‘alive’.” John explained slowly, trying to get Anderson to just _see_ , see what he needed to do.  
  
“John, this is idiocy. You do know that?” Anderson sounded like he couldn’t believe what John had asked. John could hardly believe they were having this conversation himself, but this was something he had to do and nothing, _nothing_ was going to stop him.  
  
“You said you were good at your job. Prove it. You said you wanted to believe in him. Prove that you believe in Sherlock.”  
  
“Show me proof that he's real. And then I'll help you.”  
  
John was astounded. The other man was incredibly lucky to be on the other end of the phone line; John would have chinned him if he could.  
  
John sighed. Reverse psychology was a childish method, but it worked.  
  
“You are unbelievable. I'll do it without you then. If you tell anyone, I'll come after you.”  
  
“Wait. John. I... I can't believe I'm doing this but...” The forensic manager sighed, and John knew that he had him. John whispered thanks to whoever might be listening. “You need to use your own blood to make it more convincing. And write the suicide note yourself. Make sure the body fits your profile.”  
  
“Done and done. I'll do whatever it takes. Thank you.”  
  
John hung up, and grabbed his coat. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m going out. I’ll finish packing later!”  
  
He didn’t even wait for her to answer.  
He had work to do.  
  
\----  
  
Two days had passed. Anderson had put most of the phone call out of his mind. John had never alerted Lestrade, and so his job was mostly safe. The whole bit about killing himself was mostly forgotten too. The man was probably just stressed, toying with idiotic ideas that would never work.  
  
So Anderson was stunned when he found John waiting in his kitchen, chatting amiably with his wife.  
  
"Ah, John," was all Anderson could manage.  
  
John smiled at him. "Hello, Anderson. I was just talking to your wife while waiting for you. She's lovely." Anderson's wife beamed, and John nodded at her. "I'm sorry, can you excuse us please? I have to talk to him now."  
  
"It's alright. I hope I see you again." His wife stood up, and whispered to Anderson. "I like him more than that Sally person. You should invite him again." She gave him a small kiss, mostly for John's sake, Anderson thought to himself. His wife always wanted to keep the charade of a good marriage when his friends were around, like nobody knew that their marriage was on the rocks.  
  
Anderson tried not to laugh at his wife's request, considering what John was already planning. He pulled up a chair, and sighed. "What do you want?"  
  
"I'm doing it in three days." John said. "Any advice?"  
  
Anderson huffed. "I can't believe this. Are you actually going through with this? This is stupid, John." He stood up and headed to the fridge. "Beer?"  
  
"Tea or water, please." John said. "I need to be alert."  
  
Anderson shrugged, and drank. He put a pitcher of water and a glass in front of John. "You are going to throw your life away for one man."  
  
John shrugged. "I'm not." He looked at him straight in the eye, and Anderson looked away. "You told me you would help."  
  
"I will. I just want to know why you're doing this." Anderson murmured as he finished his bottle. "You are throwing your life away, John. For Sherlock. He's not even that great of a friend."  
  
"Do not pretend that you know him." John said quietly. "You don't know Sherlock." He raised his eyes at Anderson. "I'm doing this because a friend needs me. Sherlock needs me whether he wants my help or not, and I'm going to make sure I'm damn well going to be there."  
  
"You don't even know if he's really alive."  
  
"You told me there were discrepancies."  
  
"That was all it was, discrepancies." Anderson sighed again. "For all we know he is really dead."  
  
"Anderson, it's _Sherlock_. He rarely makes mistakes. He's sending a message. He's alive." John said with finality, and Anderson knew that was the last to be said on the subject. There was no room left for argument.  
  
Anderson looked away, and there was silence.  
  
John really wanted to do this, Anderson could see. And there was nothing he can do to stop him.  
  
At the end of this all, anyone who would say that Anderson was not true to his word should shove their mouth up their arse.  
  
"I gave you my word." Anderson said. "What do you need?"  
  
"Tips. How-to's." John said. "I know I'll need a blood bag ready. I just need you to help me with the splatter and the patterns. And the rest of it."  
  
"How are you planning to do it?" Anderson leaned forward. "I assume you're going to use your Browning. You should point it under the fresh corpse's face, under the chin to destroy his face. Hug the corpse so the angle would be right." He thought for a moment. "I'll give you a diagram for it."  
  
"Thank you." John said. And he meant it, Anderson could see it in his eyes. "Thank you, Anderson."  
  
"If anything goes wrong, I wash my hands of this. And I would _not_ help you then." Anderson clarified, and then he looked away, thinking. "The fresher the corpse, the better. I would fix the reports. I would send your body to one of my friends, and not to Molly Hooper. I cannot get you a body though, John."  
  
John nodded, his face unreadable. "I’ll take care of that."  
  
"I'm going to have to think on this. I'll have someone get something to you tomorrow." Anderson said.  
  
John stood up. "Anderson, thank you." He repeated. "I'll show myself out."  
  
"You owe me for this." Anderson stood up, and followed him anyway.  
  
John scoffed, and shook his head. "No. You owed Sherlock."  
  
And the door shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson’s on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... “Text Received from Sherlock Holmes.” Not a Sherlock-Comes-Back fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written by two of the most brilliant and disturbing minds in the history of Sherlock. Oh wait, no, that’s Gatiss and Moffat.  
> Co-written by two tumblr Sherlockians who met on Omegle and started a co-writing love affair. By shwatsonlocked and scribblesonapage. Multi-chaptered. We accept sobs and laughs as reactions to this fic, comments and reviews are also welcome. Thanks for reading!

The door shut.

John rubbed his arms, trying to keep the chill of the night air from seeping into his bones. He felt cold, absolutely cold, just thinking about what he was about to do.

What he had already started. What he had already committed to.

He sighed. The past three days had been harder than he'd imagined. The next few days would be just as hard.

He walked back to the flat, mentally running through his to-do list. Goodbyes and conversations had to be done.

He just didn't imagine they would be so...difficult.

\-----

_A few days ago, Saturday, 11 August, 10:00_

John knocked on the door of Harry's flat. He only hoped that it was early enough in the day that she wasn't snockered yet. He also hoped she wasn't passed out from the previous night. He was pleasantly surprised when the door opened to his sister looking rather sober.

"John!" Harry said, starting a little in surprise. "You're... here! Why, what's wrong?" She raised a carefully trimmed eyebrow, frowning a little. "I phoned you last week, as we agreed."

John looked affronted. "Hey now! Can't I just visit my sister?" John knew that he didn't normally visit Harry, but it hurt a bit to hear that something had to be wrong when he did. Even though she was right. "Can I come in?"

Harry appeared to think for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure, come in." They walked through the hall, and Harry led John to the parlor. "Sorry about the mess. I didn't know you were coming, so I didn't clean up."

"That's fine, Harry. I don't mind. Doing okay?" John took a cursory glance of the room, happy to see no open bottles of liqueur.

"I have been sober for two days. That's good enough for you, right, big brother?" Her blue eyes stared defiantly into nearly identical ones.

John was hesitant to believe Harry. "Very good, Harry. I'm going to grab a glass of water." John walked into the kitchen and stopped. "Harry, what's in that glass? And don't say water, I can smell it from here."

Harry didn't answer. Instead she crossed her arms, and glared at John. "I hope you didn't come here to go through my kitchen, John."

John let the glare bounce off him with the ease of a protective brother. "No, I didn't. I'm just worried about you Harry. I'm going away soon and I won't be able to get on your case about this. Please, do this one thing for me?"

Harry rolled her eyes, and walked over to a chair. She sat down, and leaned back. "Look, John, I don't need you to babysit me." She then knotted her forehead in realization. "You're going away? Where?"

John waved off the last question, leaning against the wall. "That's not important. What's important is that you let someone help you with this. What about Clara? You try to hide it, but I know you miss her. You were together for years."

"As I _said_ , I don't need anyone to babysit me." Harry looked away. "Not even her. Not even Clara." She sighed. "Why are we even talking about her? You know it's over, John. We're not together anymore."

John held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, okay. I just came to say good-bye. Even though you drive me up a wall, I'm going to miss you. You're my sister, I just want you to be happy."

"John, I'm sorry. I... I'm just sorry." Harry said. She ran fingers through her short blonde hair, and finished her drink with a gulp. "Where are you going? What do you mean, 'good-bye'?" Her voice spiked when she said 'good-bye', and it made John wince.

"People say good-bye before leaving on a trip, yes? I just need out of this city. I can't be here with all the memories. I just need..." John paused, pondering over his wording. "I just need to get away for a while. From everything."

"Yes, but you make it sound like you're dying Johnny." Harry pointed out. "Besides, you could've just told me on the phone. It's not like you're not going to phone me anymore, right? I do like phoning you sometimes, you know."

John chuckled. "I like phoning you too, Harry. But, no, I won't be able to phone you. I plan on going somewhere out of the service range. I don't want to be bothered, so it's better that way."

Harry laughed. She sounded like their mother. "What, you're going hiking in the mountains and living there?"

"Yeah, sure. Call me John the Cave Hermit." John felt terrible for lying to his sister, but it had to be done. He couldn't afford for someone to stop him from doing this.

Harry grinned. "Look John, okay. I'll try again. To be sober. Just for you. But you're going to have to get down from your mountain and check on me once in a while, alright? I'll miss you."

John walked over and pulled Harry into a hug. "I'm so glad to hear that. I'll be around, I promise." He stepped back, the smile on his face a lie. "I've got to run. You take care of yourself."

Harry stood up, and opened the door. "You too, John. Be careful. I'll phone you next week!"

John walked into the hallway with a frown, knowing that she wouldn't be able to reach him next week. He got his expression under control before turning around. "I'll hold you to it. Later Harry."

\-----

_Saturday, 11 August, 13:00_

John alighted from the cab and waved at the red-head in the distance, trying not to look as happy as he felt. He had always liked Clara, and was glad that she was the one that Harry ended up with. "I'm sorry if I took too long."

Clara stood quickly and gave John a tight hug. "It's fine, John. I'm just happy to see you! How've you been? Okay? No, probably not, after what happened but I do hope you are - I'm sorry, rambling again." She grinned sheepishly.

John smiled sadly. It wasn't hard to, seeing as whenever someone reminded him about Sherlock, he couldn't help it. "It's fine. I rather missed you, you know. You and Harry, that is."

Clara took his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm here for you, John. You don't have to go through this alone." She paused. "I miss me and Harry too."

"She's still not talking to you, I take it?" John asked, deliberately avoiding talking about Sherlock.

"No, unfortunately. I wish she'd let me in, I want to help her. Sometimes she makes me so mad, but God help me, I still love her." Clara sat down again, gesturing for John to sit as well.

John smiled. "I know what you mean." A waiter stopped at their table, and John got them both some coffee and slices of cake.

"So, what's going on? What did you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to talk about Harry." John started, not really sure how to start telling Clara about his plans. He didn't want to hurt the poor woman, and didn't want her to worry either.

Clara looked curious. "Go on, John."

"You know Harry. She wouldn't last a month without me checking on her." John smiled at the thought. "I want to ask you a favour."

"Anything. What do you need?"

John smiled. 'What do you need' was very  _Clara_. The woman was just eager to help him in a heartbeat. He would miss her  _so much._  "I need you to take care of her."

"What? I mean, yes, of course, but you sound as though you won't be able to check on her yourself."

"I won't be." John put a reassuring hand on Clara's arm. "I won't be around for long, and..." John shakes his head and thinks a moment. "I'm leaving, Clara. I can't... I can't stay here. Everything just reminds me of him."

Clara looked at him sympathetically, her brown eyes full of warmth. "You lost your best friend, I can't imagine what that's like. Any idea where you're headed? You must be eager for a fresh start. I don't really understand why you can't check in on Harry too, but I won't pester you about it."

"I don't know. I don't care, really." John sighed. There are moments when he desperately wanted to tell other people about his plans, but he knew it wasn't a good idea. "I'm sorry I can't explain, Clara. I just... I need to get away. From everything."

Clara looked disappointed, but John knew she understood. "Okay, John. Let's talk about something else, shall we? Do you have time?"

John looked at her sadly, and shook his head. "I'm sorry Clara, I can't. I've got an appointment to get to."

She just smiled and stood. "No, no, it's fine. We should do this again. I'll keep an eye on Harry for you. Great seeing you!"

John sighed. "I really, really am sorry. Thank you. Thank you so much." John walked out to the main street for a cab, and watched as Clara disappeared in the distance.

As much as he wanted to stay and chat, he couldn't. Chatting with Clara made John want to  _stay_. He knew he was doing this for Sherlock, but... but what if he was doing the wrong thing? What if Sherlock was really dead? What if -

No. _What if_  Sherlock was alive? He couldn't doubt. Not now. He could not back down from this.

He was going to finish his war no matter how long it took.

\-----

_Sunday 12 August 15:00_

John didn't understand why, but whenever he went to the psychiatrist it always rained. Droplets of water stained the glass windows, and dimmed the natural light that would have made the clinic more beautiful. "John?" He blinked, and turned back to the psychiatrist. She spoke. "You seem distracted."

John met her gaze for a second before darting his eyes down to the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that. This week has been...difficult."

Ella made something that was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but John could feel the patronizing gaze that she gave him. "Are we talking about our 'assignment'? How did that one go?"

"I think you'll be pleased to know that I sent the text." He locked his arms in front of him, and stared at Ella with a stony gaze.

"And what happened?" Ella scribbled something on her notepad and managed to look thoughtful.

Oh the  _ways_  John could answer her question. "He texted back. What do you think happened?" John leaned leftwards in the chair, gesturing with his hand. "I sent a bloody text to my dead best friend. Of course nothing happened."

"And how do you feel about that?"

John scoffed and gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fine. I'm fine with it."

"Oh? What do you mean by 'fine'?"

"You want to know if I'm jumping for joy?" John leaned forward in his chair, staring her down. "Well, I'm not. I'm planning on getting away from here soon, which is partly why I came today. To let you know."

"Getting away?" The therapist scribbled that bit in her notes as well.

"Yes. Getting out of London, away from the past almost two years of memories." He sighed and clenched his fists, keeping his emotions under control.

Ella was silent for a moment, obviously thinking on his plan. "That may be good for you. A chance to distance yourself. From everything."

John nodded shortly, and got up. "Yeah, I thought so too. If there isn't anything else, I'll just take my leave."

"Our session isn't over for at least forty-five minutes. Are you sure there is nothing more you want to talk about?"

John shook his head. He was done talking through his feelings. He was acting on them.

The ex-army doctor stood and walked out of the office of Ella Thompson for the last time.

\-----

_Present, Monday, 13 August 08:35_

Today, John needed to find a body. And not just any body, but a body that fit his physical profile, down to the scars. John doubted that it was going to be anything short of finding a needle in a haystack, but he needed one.

He wasn't keen on visiting old friends. John did not trust a lot of people. Old friends fell into two categories: people who owed him, and people he owed. It felt rude, he decided, to visit friends only because he needed something from them.

But as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures.

John made his way into the doctors' offices, leaning heavily on his old cane he brought out for the occasion. He turned around the white corridors, looking at the doors and the signs, and finally gave up and leaned over the nurses' station with a smile. "Hello, I'm looking for Dr. Laurie?"

A gruff voice came from behind him. "Present. I don't do walk-ins though, find another doctor."

"Dr. Laurie?" John turned, his face caught between a smile and a frown. "It's been a long time." He held out a hand to shake.

He looked up to the man who was a few inches taller than him. The man looked more bristly than he remembered, and his face drawn long and harsh. The man's eyes sunk into a deep sadness, like something tragic had happened to him at some point in his life and he was not able to bounce back up, but it was shadowed by smug brilliance that Greg Laurie brought everywhere, even when they were still in medical school.

Greg ignored the offered hand. "So what brings the army doctor-turned-detective in to see little old me?"

John cocked his head, and pulled back his hand with raised eyebrows. "I'm just here to visit an old friend."

Greg gave a crooked smile. "I think we both know that you wouldn't be here if you didn't need something. My office is this way." He started hobbling toward the lifts.

John followed, leaning on his cane awkwardly every now and again. There was no phantom pain in his leg, but he thought that it may bring sympathy to the doctor he was trying to enlist in his small 'army'.

On second thought, no, it probably wouldn't work with him. Sympathy? John was more likely to get him to sign up if he told him they were doing a felony. "So, Greg, how have you been?" He said once he stepped in the lift.

Greg scoffed before answering. "Oh, you know how it is. Boring case, dying patient, commit a questionable act to save their life, eat dinner."

John winced. It sounded  _exactly_  like what Sherlock might say, minus the eating. "That...that sounds very fulfilling."

The lift came to a stop at that moment and Greg stepped out first. "Better than sex. Well, that's a lie, but it comes close."

John didn't answer. He followed Greg to his office, and stood up in front of the desk. "Yes, you were right." John said, not even waiting for Greg to sit down. "I'm here to collect on debts. I need your help."

Greg flounced into his chair, grabbing the rubber ball of his desk to fiddle with. "Thought as much. It's not like you'd be here for that fake limp. So what do  _you_  need from _me_?"

"I need a body. A dead one. Or a soon to be dead one." John said, leaning on his cane despite Greg's observation.

"You don't ask for small favours, do you? Why a dead body? Into necrophilia?"

John rolled his eyes. "The favour I did you wasn't small, either." A small smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth when he thought of a retort. "If I tell you, I have to kill you. So are you going to help me?"

Greg leaned forward, a spark in his blue eyes. "Sounds exciting. What type of body are we looking for? Female? Male?"

"Mine. One that looks like me."

"This is getting more interesting by the second. I happen to know just the one you need. Joe Bloggs, vegetable." Greg tapped his skull. "Coming off life support in a couple days too."

"Show me." John said, moving aside to let Greg go first.

The two doctors walked back to the lifts. The patient was in the Palliative care wing, John noticed idly as he kept the layout of the hospital in mind. Greg casually leaned against the door, letting John step in the room to look at the poor sod.

John looked at the unmoving patient. His chest moved steadily up and down, but one glance at the various hook-ups to his system told John that the machine was the only thing keeping him alive. He watched the poor man for a moment, and noted the blond hair. It needed trimming, but he could handle that. The eyes - well, as disturbing as it is, he needed to raise the eyelids of the brain dead man. A flash of blue: perfect. Except for the fact the man was terminally ill, and that his body wouldn't scream 'military man' when people saw it, it would have to do.

Military. His service in the military.  _Ah shite._ "He'll be perfect, but there's a problem."

"Don't tell me you're picky?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

John sighed, and gestured at the man. "Wounds. Scars. I came from a war zone. He didn't."

"We can always fix that."

John turned to Greg with a horrified expression on his face. "Are you talking about actually  _hurting_  your patient?"

"Well it's not like he can feel it. Vegetable, remember?" Greg shrugged, and looked at the man's chart. "See, Glasgow score 3. It's not like he'll feel it when he wakes up - it's not even as if  _he will wake up_. He won't!"

"This is why they almost kicked you out of medical school. " John looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching in an effort to not smile. "But... he will do, I think. It's not like I have any better choices. I'll figure out a way around the autopsy reports."

Greg shrugged. "If you can get the body back here, people downstairs owe me a favour."

"Alright, I'll get it here. Thank you, Greg."

"So, what are you planning? A prank? Some sort of ancient ritual to appease a pagan god?" Greg grinned. "Throw me a bone here, John! I'm helping you  _steal a body_."

John shook his head. "Just be happy that I still haven't reported you for your felony." He smiled a rather predatory smile. "I still have the pictures, and it would get your medical license revoked."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Give me your mobile then. We'll need to talk about how to get this guy out of here."

John thought for a moment. "No. I'll phone you later." He slipped out of the patient's room, and Greg followed. "Just keep an eye out for better candidates."

"Sure will, Captain." Greg raised his eyebrows. "You're not asking for a lot, are you John?"

John smiled tightly. "Think of it this way, Greg: I'll owe you one."

He picked up his cane and straightened, and walked out of the hospital with grim determination on his face. His plans were moving along nicely, and he was going to do this.

Hell was going to break loose. His death was only the beginning.

\-----

_Monday, 13 August 11:17_

John knew he was going to need someplace to run to after dying and frankly, he was a bit short on options. He didn't know a lot of rich  _and_  trustworthy people. His best bet was going to be a past client, someone he could trust, and someone who trusted him back.

He knew exactly who to call.

He borrowed Mrs. Hudson's phone,just paranoid enough of Mycroft's tendencies to stick his nose into everything and dialed the number.

"Hello? Henry? This is John. John Watson. Do you remember me?"

Henry's voice sounded cheerier than the last time they spoke, like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders. After how that case turned out, John wasn't surprised the man was in a better disposition. "John Watson. Yes, of course I remember you. You were with Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

John sighed. He didn't want to put another burden on Henry's shoulders, but he needed help. "I'm calling you because I need a favour and you seemed like a nice bloke. Trustworthy. Can I trust you?"

"Sure, Dr. Watson." Henry sounded confused. "What is it?"

John exhaled loudly. "Is there somewhere we could meet to talk? I don't really want to do this over the phone, but didn't want to just drop in on you. Preferably somewhere outside London, with no CCTV."

"Yes, of course - but what is this about? Is this about the payment? I can send you the check over if you changed your mind..."

"No, it's not about money." John frowned. It didn't occur to him that maybe, some people haven't heard of Sherlock's... disappearance. "I take it you haven't been paying attention to the news?"

"Not really, Doctor." The younger man's voice poured emotion like a sieve, and John couldn't help but smile at Henry's ease at sharing his thoughts. "I'm tired of the news. After what happened, the reporters kept on running after me and I'm just so tired of seeing anything related to the press."

John was silent for a few moments, mulling over something. "I'd rather tell you what happened in person then. It's a rather long story and I'm borrowing this phone.

"Well, alright, maybe the Winston Churchill Gardens? It's around two hours from London." Henry suggested.

John smiled in relief. Somehow it felt like Henry would help and stick by him through this. "That's fine. I'll meet you there in three hours?"

"Alright. I'll see you there, then."

John checked his watch. He'd gotten there early, wanting to make sure he wouldn't miss the younger man. He sat on a bench near the main car park. He spotted Henry five minutes later and called out. "Over here, Henry!"

"Dr. Watson! Hello. Ah, what can I do for you?"

John stood and shook Henry's hand in greeting. "Why don't we walk while I explain?" They started walking the jogging path. "About 3 weeks ago, Sherlock Holmes committed suicide. A few days ago I was... informed, that it's possible he managed to survive."

"Wait, hang on - what? Mr. Holmes committed suicide?" Henry looked distressed at the news. "Since... when? What happened?"

"I'm not entirely clear on what happened, but I do know that James Moriarty had his name all over it. My point is, Sherlock is most likely out there, fighting this war that no-one knows about and I am trying to help him. I plan on faking my death, but I'm going to need a place to hide out for a bit afterwards."

"I'm..." Henry's eyebrows knit in uncertainty. "This sounds dangerous, Dr. Watson."

"It might be for me, but I doubt you'll be in much danger at all." John's heart felt like it almost stopped. He pleaded silently, hoping to all powers-that-be that the younger man would help him. "I don't have a lot of allies here, will you help me?"

Henry let out a sigh and ran a hand over his mouth. "I couldn't think of any other way to repay you. For what you and Mr. Sherlock did."

"Thank you." John exhaled in relief, and tried not to let it show too much on his face. "You have no idea how much this means to me, really. I'll be dropping in late on Wednesday."

"I'll see you then, Dr. Watson. I'll keep your secret safe."

John and Henry parted ways at the park entrance, knowing that the next time they met, John wouldn't quite be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shwatsonlocked: First off, thank you to everyone who added us to your bookmarks and our kudos/commentees. I am so happy that this is being well received (honestly, I jump up and down every time I see a new kudos/comment, so feel free to make that happen by hitting the comment button xD) I love you all and hope that you enjoyed this chapter, long as it was.
> 
> Jaeh: Hi, have I told you I love you? If not, I do. I really, really do.
> 
> See you in chapter three!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked and/or kudosed! We are so sorry that this took over a month to write...but hopefully the 10,474 word count makes up for it, yes? Thank you for waiting, everyone! We blame timezones, real life, and tumblr for interfering with writing (we love all of that, anyway. except for timezones. bloody, nasty little thing). Anyway, here's our monster. Hope it makes up for the time we took to write it!
> 
> Please review! We love hearing from our readers <3 
> 
> Make sure to check out Static, the in-universe companion series to this. Offers other POV's of happenings in the chapters. And emotions. Link here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/363766

John reread the instructions on the dye box three times before even letting the stuff touch his hair. He had half a mind to just head off to a hairdresser to get it over with, but that would be too suspicious. Besides, he never did like going to such shops. Too much chatter and noise.  
  
Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to go buy the box for him, but he’d asked for brown, not some sure to be hideous red-brown. He didn’t have much of a choice, he only hoped it would turn out normal looking. John shook the strong smelling dye in the plastic bottle and leaned over the sink to catch any drips, glancing at the mirror every now and again.  
  
Christ, this was going to be bad on his back. It already hurt. He always felt older than when his back hurt. He was almost forty years old. How did other people do this?  
  
John was only part way through depositing the colour when it started to burn his scalp. He winced, almost yelping a little as he thought of the dye eating its way through his skin and tinting his skull. _No, John, that’s ridiculous. Besides, you got shot. This is just hair colour. This is easy._  
  
“Bloody dye,” he swore. “How do women do this all the time?” Despite the burning, he finished squeezing the dye onto his hair and rubbed it with his gloved hands. He scratched a bit at the parts that were stinging, feeling immediate relief. The dye started to drip down his forehead, and John panicked at the thought of the colour getting into his eyes, and he yanked the toilet paper roll and wiped his forehead. _Easy, my arse. This is bloody impossible._  
  
 _Oh god, I have to do this every time my hair grows._  
  
He grabbed the instruction sheet after the dye was covering his head to check the wait time again. Thirty minutes. Fantastic. He set the egg timer for the recommended time. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a window in the ensuite and his sense of smell was being tortured by the chemicals in the dye, so John wrapped an old towel around his neck and walked out to the living room.  
  
John Watson was a sensible man. If one needed to do something big, something complicated, someone made a list. And so he made one. He stared at his to-do list, double checking that he wasn’t forgetting anything. _Body, check, hair, check, goodbyes, check..._  
  
John was fairly certain that he’d planned as well as he could. There were still a lot of things to complete to ease his 'passing'. After this, everything else would be out of his hands, and he was going to have to rely on the people he trusted to push it through for him.  He sighed.  People. He was going to have to leave people behind. Some he didn’t mind leaving as much as others, but he was leaving them nonetheless.  
  
He heard the timer ding and walked back to the bathroom.  
  
He picked the conditioner that came in the box off the sink and turned on the shower. John figured that this would be easier than leaning over the edge of the tub, which might possibly kill his back further. The dye turned the water red at his feet, and he watched idly, wondering if that was what it would look like if he decided to 'kill himself' in the shower. He shrugged, squeezed the conditioner from the bottle, and scrubbed it into his hair.  
  
As John rinsed, he mentally ran through his to-do list again. He couldn't afford to be sloppy, to forget something. He needed to be thorough, and to make this as perfect as possible.  
  
He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't an idiot. He had friends who can help him, too. Speaking of friends, he needed to see one about a diagram.  
  
John left the shower, red staining the bath and mixing in with the greens and blues Sherlock left from all his experiments.  
  
He had his clothes laid out in Sherlock’s room. He had a blue striped shirt and a pair of jeans ready on the bed, and he dug through the detective’s wardrobe for the ‘disguises’ the man kept ‘just in case’. John found a leather jacket a little too big for Sherlock’s frame, and threw it on the bed as well. He planned on wearing it to a meeting later, but didn’t want anyone seeing him in it just yet. He liked how the jacket looked. It wasn’t something that he would ever wear as John Watson, but maybe Arthur Dent would put it on. But he wasn’t Arthur Dent yet, and the coat would easily call attention to his person if he walked out of the flat in it, so it went into an old Tesco bag. He tossed his new coloured contacts in there as well.  
  
John was very cautious. He operated under the assumption that someone was watching his every move, and so he tried to be as _him_ as possible. He was paranoid that someone, perhaps Mycroft, _especially Mycroft_ , would notice his odd behaviour. He was certain the man would try and stop him somehow. He couldn’t have that.  
  
He checked the bag again, satisfied that everything was in there. He didn’t want Anderson to see his entire new look, but he’d need to wear them later today for a test run. Glancing at the time, he swore and dressed in a hurry. According to his own schedule, he was late. Too many things left to do. He grabbed his things and left the flat at a run.  
  
\---  
  
John knocked on the door to Anderson's house. Normally he wouldn't think twice on visiting the man and would simply say _no_ to the idea, but the man hadn't sent him those diagrams and D-day was tomorrow. A car was in the drive; obviously, Anderson was at home. The door swung open just before John could knock again.  
  
“Good mo-oh. John. Nice hair. Auburn, really?” Anderson appeared in his dressing gown. It looked like the man had just woken up, his black hair sticking up everywhere. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin.  
  
“Anderson.” John bobbed his head in greeting, ignoring the jest towards his newly coloured hair. “Mind if we take this inside?”  
  
Anderson shrugged and stepped aside to let the doctor pass. “Hello." He said wryly, walking into the den. Anderson turned to John, and crossed his arms. "Why are you here?”  
  
John had followed, and his hand rested against the back of a chair. “You have those diagrams you mentioned?”  
  
Anderson swore and scratched his head. The man looked genuinely flustered, and he raised his eyes almost apologetically to John. “No, haven't been able to think on it. The Yard is going nuts. Lots of cases, lots of unsolved ones.”  
  
John sighed. He needed those diagrams. He still has to study them, and he needed to make it as close to the real deal as possible. Even if Anderson was already there to help him fake evidence that didn't mean that John should be purposely careless. “I understand, I do. You do know I need those for tomorrow, yeah?”  
  
“I know.” Anderson scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I have it on my calendar and everything.”  
  
John grimaced at the joke, and Anderson continued. “I'm going to work on it after tea. Tea?”  
  
“I'd love to stay, but I've got other places to be.” John looked at his mobile and furrowed his brow.  
  
Sometimes, he still half expected it to beep with a text message from Sherlock, asking him to buy more milk or making him go on some bizarre errand _especially_ if he was in the middle of something.  
  
Just like it did a few days ago. He knew it wouldn't, since "Sherlock" had turned out to be Anderson. John blinked. _Where_ did _Sherlock's mobile go?_  
  
“Anderson, where is Sherlock's mobile?”  
  
“Hm? What?”  Anderson turned from preparing tea to look at John.  
  
John scowled. He wasn’t in the mood to play games. “You heard me. Where is it? You texted me from Sherlock's mobile, that means you have it. I want it.” As an afterthought, he tacked on a please.  
  
“I don't have it. Left it in the evidence locker.” Anderson sipped his tea, avoiding John’s eyes.  
  
“Look at me and say that again.” John commanded. He stared him down like he was an unruly private.  
  
“I...” Anderson looked up, “left it-” he took another sip from his cup - “elsewhere. I just don't have it, all right?”  
  
John was quiet, thinking. He glanced down at his mobile and navigated to the last text he'd sent Sherlock's phone and resent it.  
  
The beep punctuated the tension in the room.  
  
“...bullocks.”  
  
John stared at Anderson. “ You've got two options. Hand over the phone, or I take it from you.”  
  
“No, John, it's evidence. It should be in an evidence locker in the Yard. You _can’t_ take it.”  
  
“I can and I _will._ We both know that if this was evidence, it would be in the evidence locker and not here with you. Cut the crap, Anderson. Last chance, hand it over.” John held out a hand. "Give it to me."  
  
“...Why?” The forensic officer asked dumbly, crossing his arms over his robe.  
  
John didn’t have time for this. He exhaled through his mouth, and closed his eyes for a second. "Not a good time, Anderson. I was a soldier - I killed people, and I _am_ not in the mood to be particularly patient today." John warned. Anderson didn’t budge.  
John lunged for Anderson, tackling him to the floor.  
Anderson fell with a surprised squeak, knocking the tea over on the way down. “John what the f- Ack!”  
  
John dug his knee into Anderson's kidneys, pulling and struggling against the man's flailing. “Just give up the phone!”  
  
“No!” He folded an arm protectively over his shirt pocket. “It's evidence!”  
  
John huffed. “No it bloody isn't! Greg told me that they didn't find his phone. Funny how that turned out.”  
  
Anderson swore and tried to crawl away, jerking his arm away from John's hand and doing a faux army crawl across the kitchen floor. “John, get off me! This is assault!”  
  
The frustrated doctor grabbed Anderson and held him in a light choke hold, putting most of his weight on Anderson's back.  
  
“Someone gave it to me for safekeeping and NO!” Anderson rasped, his hands flopping about, trying to grab at John and fling him off his back.  
  
John reached for the pocket but Anderson managed to slide the iPhone out of his pocket first. It skittered across the tiles and came to halt in the corner. John released his hold to make for the phone.  
  
“Assaulting an officer! I'm pressing charges!” The pale, scrawny man scrambled for the mobile, almost pouncing at it from a distance.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Anderson! Just give me Sherlock's phone! It won't do _you_ any good!” John grabbed Anderson's leg and tugged him down. “Besides, isn't it a bit not good to charge a dead man with something?”  
  
Anderson looked like a man trying to save his child and he yelled like it too. “I told you, it was given to me for safekeeping and I am NOT letting it out of my sight!” John received a kick in the sternum. “Let go!”  
  
John avoided a flailing foot when it jerked toward him. This was bloody ridiculous. “Who the hell gave you the mobile then?" He growled, swatting away the limbs coming at him. "You know what I think? I think you stole it off the roof.”  
  
“I did not - at least not voluntarily! I got a bloody phone call that told me to do that! And so I did!" Anderson's voice took on what sounded like a desperate plea. "They threatened to throw me off the Met's payroll!”  
  
John froze, wetting his lips before quietly asking. “What?”  
  
“I told you!” Anderson panted. He kicked at John's hand, and John let him go. “Someone phoned me...” He stood, and picked up the device. “...told me to keep the phone and never let it out of my sight and threatened to have me fired if I didn't.” He sighed wearily, and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “What was I supposed to do?”  
  
John blinked, laying out on the floor at that revelation. He stared at the ceiling, not even caring that he looked ridiculous on Anderson's kitchen floor. _Who would...oh yes, of course. Mycroft bloody Holmes. Mr British Government. Fitting that the name that literally opens doors can shut figurative ones._ He sat up, running a hand through his red-brown hair. “Anderson, I promise that the man who told you that has no problems with me getting that phone. Your job will be fine.”  
  
Doubt clouded Anderson’s face. “Are you sure?" The man turned to John, his eyes lighting up. "Wait, you actually know who he is?”  
  
John glared at the ceiling, his lips twitching downward. “Yes, I'm sure. And unfortunately, I know who it is.”  
  
“Then by all means, here.” Anderson tossed the mobile to John, a look of relief on his features. “That phone has made my life a living, breathing hell - even before I sent you that damned message." Anderson's face seemed to twitch at the thought. "I keep looking over my bloody shoulder, certain that it would get me in trouble or killed or something. All yours, John.”  
  
Once the phone was in his hand, John felt more irritated then relieved. What had Mycroft been thinking, giving _Sherlock's_ phone to _Anderson?_  “Thank you. Sorry for the, well, that. I really do have to get a move on now. Can you bring the diagrams to the flat tomorrow? Around 16:00?”  
  
“I will.” Anderson nodded quickly, clearly in a better mood despite the tussle. “Take care, John.”  
  
John tilted his head, quirking a smile.  “Thanks, you too. Cheers.”  
  
Sherlock’s mobile felt heavy in John’s pocket. Mycroft hid Sherlock’s phone from everyone, _including him_ , and that meant that there was something _special_ about it. A clue or a message hidden on it, perhaps. John didn’t know _yet_ , but... if Mycroft was this adamant in keeping the mobile _safe_ , is it more proof that Sherlock really was alive?  
  
The adrenaline still racing through his veins from the scuffle fed his determination and his certainty. Sherlock was alive.  
  
He _is_ alive.  
  
And John was going to find him. And for that, he was going to need a new identity.  
  
\---  
  
Steve Tabernacle sat on the park bench and resisted the urge to tap his fingers. His client wasn’t late, not by a long shot. Steve was just early. He sighed.  
  
He couldn’t believe he was reduced to this, faking IDs for clients whom he didn’t even know personally. But he was broke; he took every job he could get. Even simple fake IDs. Money was still money.  
  
Steve watched his client from afar. He wore a brown-almost-black leather pea coat that looked out of place on him and walked with a military air and bearing that gave him away. The man was obviously pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Steve shook his head and stood up.  
  
“Mr. Dent?” he asked, lightly brushing his suit off. Paul Smith. (Very expensive, very nice. He’d sell them last if they really run out of money.)  
  
Arthur gave a polite smile before he answered. “Yes, that’s me. You’ll be Mr. Tabernacle then?” His voice was taut, but there was still a level of control, modulated.  
  
“Yeah.” Steve flashed a brilliant smile, hoping to put his client at ease. The shorter man clearly had never done this before. Arthur was too tense. Time to get to business then. “So. We’re making you new IDs today.”  
  
“That was the plan. You can do it on short notice?”  
  
“Easy. Not a problem.” Steve slipped a hand into his pocket, and produced his own fake U.K. license, fiddling with it between his fingers. “I’m copying this one, right? Are you just using it here in the country or do you need a passport as well?”  
  
Mr. Dent appeared to think for a moment, but the deep blue eyes never lost their alertness. “I’ll need a passport too, if that’s not too much trouble.”  
  
“It’s your dime, Arthur. Can I call you Arthur? Anyway, we need pictures. Preferably with different backgrounds. I can take them for you, but you’re going to have to come with me for that.” Steve smiled brilliantly, and sent the go ahead text to his partner.  “Can I trust you?”  
  
“Can _I_ trust _you?_ ”  
  
“Touché, Mr. Dent. You can trust me as long as you can pay me. Shall we?” The car rolled in, right on cue.  
  
Arthur inclined his head and headed toward the car. “I don’t think we’re going to have any problems.”  
  
“I’m glad.” Steve opened the door, and let Arthur into the back seat. He got in the front, and stared at Arthur from the rear-view mirror. “So, Arthur, it’s none of my business, but why does a man like you need fake IDs? You don’t seem the type.”  
  
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Do you often judge people’s character on their appearance? That could be a mistake that costs you your life.”  
  
Steve laughed good-naturedly. It was old but sound advice, something that he’d learned early on when he was starting out. “No, but you don’t look like anyone who’d pull a con or anything illegal. Military man, obviously. Your walk says a lot. I’ll show you when we arrive at my office. ”  
  
Arthur nodded before a thoughtful look stole across his features. “You’re right; maybe I’m not the type you normally make fake IDs for. Not that I’d know.” He tapped a finger on the seat, and looked Steve straight in the eye through the mirror. “You seem to know a lot about disguise though. Any pointers?” he asked, whetting his lips.  
  
“Pointers?” Steve turned, and looked at Arthur in surprise. “Seriously? You’re asking me for pointers? Mr. Dent, that’d be like having me admit to you that I’m a con artist!”  
  
“Spare me the innocent act Mr. Tabernacle. My friends told me what you allegedly did before breaking into making fake IDs.”  
  
Steve broke into a huge grin. “Hah, your friends.” He didn’t believe for a moment that Arthur had a lot of friends like him. It was more likely that he had gotten a tip from some cop friend. This could be the end of his stint in London.  “But pointers? On ‘acting’? How long will you be doing it?”  
  
“For as long as necessary. Long term.”  
  
“Those are always the tricky ones.” Steve said, trying his best not to grin like an idiot. He was flattered that someone was _actually_ asking him for advice.  
  
“Let’s start with something easy. You noticed military in my walk. How do I hide that?”  
  
“Walk in another manner.” Steve answered with a grin, and laughed when he saw Arthur’s incredulous expression. “No, really. Watch how other people walk and just... copy that.” He said. He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain it. It was _acting_. How do you explain the act of acting to someone?  
  
“That’s all there is to it? I thought it would be more complicated.” The man in the backseat scoffed and rolled his eyes. He leveled his gaze at Steve, who met it with his own. Arthur had a penetrating gaze - like what a commanding officer might give a private under him. The man needed to get rid of that if he wanted a new identity. “Anything else?”  
  
“Oh! I’ve got a good one.” The driver suddenly spoke, and Steve glared at him. Haversham wasn’t really supposed to speak. “‘We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.’ Believe in who you’re playing. Really think and act like him. You know, like in the movies. Like you’re going to win an Oscar for it.”  
  
“Or a BAFTA, if you want.” Steve offered with a grin. “I guess it does come down to that, doesn’t it?”  
  
Haversham nodded. “Yes, yes it does.”  
  
“You know, I had a dream once, where I won a BAFTA. “Arthur offered in a way of humor, and Steve and his associate laughed.  
  
“You’ve got it all in the bag then. We’re here.” Steve said, pointing out a small flat. “After you, Arthur?”  
  
“Right, thank you.” Arthur got out of the car and headed to the flat’s door. Steve called his name so the man could see his demonstration.  
  
He walked forward, miming Arthur’s measured, military walk. When he reached the steps of the door, Steve made a gesture as if to ask how he did. He was rewarded with a laugh of astonishment.  
  
“Good, that was good. Scary even.” Arthur remarked as Steve unlocked the door to the flat.  
  
Once inside, Haversham retrieved a camera from the closet and took Arthur’s picture against a nice white wall. Different expressions, different angles. It took Steve a while to coach the man to school his features a little differently from each shot. Arthur wasn’t a very good actor, but he needed to be soon, especially if he wanted to do this long term.  
  
Steve took the CF card to the computer and opened the files. “I’ll have them done in an hour. Are you going to wait or...?” He paused; wondering if that was going to give him enough time to finish three sets of fake papers and ids. After all, you can’t rush art. “No, actually, make that three.” he said, clicking the print button.  
  
Arthur waves it away, and sits down on the couch, looking like a child waiting for their mom to pick them up. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He looked left and right, like he was trying to decide something, and then looked up at Steve. “Is there a place nearby I can buy a cheap mobile?”  
  
Haversham grinned, and opened a drawer. He tossed Arthur one, and shrugged. “Here. That will be... twenty quid.”  
  
Arthur looked relieved, and handed over the twenty quid and pocketed the cell phone.  
  
“So, as the glue dries, tell me more about yourself, Arthur.” Steve said. He watched the man with interest, grinning ever so slightly with each movement the man made. It was so astonishingly easy to figure him out. That wasn’t going to work. Arthur would fail in a week.  
  
“I think it’s safer if I don’t tell you anything about myself. The less you know the better.” Safe answer. Good answer, if Steve hadn’t already figured it out.  
  
“Of course it is. But come on, “Arthur”. You don’t really think that your dye job’s enough to fool everyone? I read the news. I actually follow your blog. Tack on that wonderful military air and the fact that you have been suspiciously looking over your shoulder for the past hour as if waiting for someone to say something... I know exactly who you are, Dr. John Watson.” Steve shrugged, grinning widely now, certain that he was right from the way the man shifted almost uncomfortably in front of him. “And I’m a huge fan.”  
  
  
 **\----**  
  
John shouldn’t be surprised, really. So he wasn’t. He sighed instead. Clearly Sherlock’s fame wasn’t only getting Sherlock noticed. He would need a better disguise if this stranger could see right through it.  
  
But then again, Steve was anything but an ordinary stranger. The man grinned at John, his movements sure and confident. Charm rolled off the man in waves, and John could see why people trusted him. Something about those sharp, blue eyes however, told John that the man was great at selling his lies, and twisting them with the truth. And John wouldn’t lie, the man was a good-looking bloke. That probably helped put people at ease.  
  
John had been pointed in his direction by a friend who worked somewhere in law enforcement, and their sources are usually spot on, if not a bit shy of the truth. And John could see that his source was wrong - this man seemed to be better than what they have on record.  
  
“When did you realize who I was?”  
  
“The moment I saw you walk.” Steve stretched his legs on the sofa and put them on the coffee table. “All right, maybe a little after you started talking.”  
  
“Right then. I’ll have to work on changing that. Will I be recognizable to anyone else I don’t know?”  
  
“Look, John, I’m a special case. I do this for a living. Others - not so much.” Steve looked at John, scanning him from head to toe. He gestured at John. “You need to... change everything. The way you talk, the way you think, the way you act. You have to believe in this character you made up.” He frowned. “I don’t know why you’re doing this (probably has something to do with Sherlock) but you need to be less you for this to work. Arthur Dent needs to become more... _real._ ”  
  
Change everything. Combat 35 years of habits, mannerisms...his identity.  
  
 _No pressure._  
  
It was sound advice.  It was going to be hard, pretending to be a different person every day, never letting your guard down even while you sleep. But he could do it - he _will_ do it.  Come tomorrow, John Watson would be dead, and Arthur Dent would materialize out of thin air.  
  
His mind ran as it considered possibilities. Arthur Dent. Who would he be? Would he be loud? A cynic? Does have a family? John felt a rush as he remembered what had made Richard Brook so believable to the public. A background. Arthur Dent needed a history. Everything else would build from there.  
  
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you.”  
  
“I could help you, you know.” Steve said with a grin. “Always for a price, but I can help.”  
  
“How much would it cost me?”  
  
“I’ll send you a bill.”  
  
“Send it here.” John wrote down Henry’s mailing address. “I’m not sure where I’ll be when you bill me.”  
  
“Will do.” Steve grinned, and hid the paper in his pocket. “Tell you what. We fix your back-stories, histories, papers, everything, and me and my driver here will take care of the rest. And then I could be your... consulting criminal for the week.”  
  
John tensed at the title. _Relax, John. He’s no Moriarty._ “As long as you never call yourself my consulting criminal again. I’ve got a bad history with consulting criminals.”  
  
Steve thought for a moment, and rubbed his forehead in dismay. He shook his head. “Right. Him. _The_ consulting criminal. Moriarty.” He grimaced, and frowned apologetically at John. “Sorry, forgot for a moment there.” He glanced at his driver, who made a disgusted, if not terrified, face. “I never liked him. He always was too creepy, and every ‘favour’ you get has strings attached. Never liked all the killing, either.”  
  
The forger flashed a smile again, as if remembering something. He looked at John pointedly. “You know what, I met him once. Sherlock. Nice enough guy, almost - _almost_ handed me over to the Yard. If only the FBI didn’t get first dibs on me and everything got buried under the bureaucratic red tape we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”  
  
John laughed. “You must have made a good impression, if he _almost_ handed you over to the Yard.”  
  
Steve shook his head, laughing too. “Almost - I slipped away before they could get me.”  
  
“And just what was it you were up to? Stealing a Raphael?” John chuckled at the absurdity.  
  
Steve raised his eyebrows suggestively, and ignored the question altogether. “How _is_ Sherlock doing? He couldn’t have just killed himself. I’ve seen people pull that con many times and they still pop up in someone’s radar at some point.” He leaned forward. “Besides, between you and me, I bet Moriarty’s knee deep in whatever happened. His fingers are in everybody’s cookie jars.”  
  
John didn’t want to share his hopes of Sherlock being alive. It wasn’t worth the risk. John kept his face passive. “Sherlock is dead, everybody knows that. I saw it happen.” He paused. “I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if Moriarty was at the centre of it. Sherlock was his favourite game.”  
  
Steve shook his head in amusement, as if he knew John wasn’t telling him something. “Okay, that’s okay, I wouldn’t tell you anything either if I was running a con.” He grinned, and waved at one of the drying licenses. “So, Mr ‘Dent’, let’s see how we can bring you to life.”  
  
\---  
  
Tabernacle did not disappoint. The papers were perfect; John compared them to his originals and he couldn’t tell the difference.  
  
Next on his list was _shopping._ Clothes shopping. Honestly. He usually had Clara or Harry help him for this, but now he was on his own. He sighed, missing the ease of army uniforms. Civvys could get a little complicated. But Arthur was a civilian, and he needed clothes that did not consist of jumpers and jeans.  
  
A cab dropped him off at the Debenhams. John browsed the racks, grabbing shirts that weren’t his usual button ups, hoodies that weren’t his knit jumpers, and a couple pairs of jeans that John Watson wouldn't wear.  He saw a grey jacket that reminded him of his green one and added it to his growing pile of Arthur clothes. John wasn’t very materialistic, but maybe if he had some pieces that reminded him of who he was, who he’d been, this would be easier. He couldn’t simply dispense of _John Watson_ simply because he was going to ‘die’.  
  
Next came a comfortable pair of black ankle boots that looked good for running and some toiletries. A flat cap and a pair of leather gloves. He moved on to the toy section to find an item of significant importance: a water gun. He felt ridiculous, a grown man scanning through the toy department for water guns, but thank heavens he didn't actually have to browse for one, since there was only one type. It was perfect: different settings for spraying or streaming. It was necessary. How else was he to spray his blood all over the flat? He grabbed a duffle bag and a new wallet for his new ID. He needed to leave his own on the body, and John sighed at the thought. Clara had given it to him for Christmas. It was a nice wallet.  
  
He fought his way through the lines and managed to check out without much fuss (which was, in retrospect, a complete miracle that the machines didn't hate him this time; never mind that someone else was operating the counter.) He caught the tube back to Baker Street. No more cabs for a while. He was running out of money. He needed to save some.  
  
John packed with the ease of a man who has been doing it for years. His position in the army had him move from checkpoint to checkpoint, camp to camp, and he had become efficient at packing his clothes quickly and neatly, managing to fit all of what he needed into his bag. He carefully laid his fake papers at the bottom of the bag, and slipped in his new phone in the bag's pocket.  
  
He placed the packed bag in the middle of the den, and sat in his chair. He stared at it.  
  
There was Arthur Dent's life (along with one Hector Dixon and a Tim Canterbury) in a duffle bag.  
  
John Watson stood up. He glanced around the flat. He was leaving 221b. He had been here for _so_ _long…_ far too many memories. Sherlock, playing the violin on the couch or by the window, composing music or playing Chopin. Himself, eating toast and jam, drinking tea on the table next to a sliced open heart with electrodes stuck in it. Mrs Hudson, coming up the stairs telling the boys they had another client, and asking if they wanted tea. Greg, Donovan - hell, even Anderson, combing through the flat under the pretense of a drug bust.  
  
The animal skull with headphones, the human skull on the mantel, the Cluedo board, the bullet holes and smiley on the wall.  
  
It was his _home_ , and he was leaving it.  
  
John exhaled slowly. He wanted to keep a part of it, a piece of it that wouldn't be missed when he leaves. The skull was too conspicuous. Sherlock's violin? _No, John, don't be stupid. What would you do with Sherlock's violin?_ Too obvious. People would wonder where it went. Sherlock. Maybe just a piece of Sherlock. 221B. He'd always associated it, partly, with his best friend anyway.  
  
Sherlock. His dressing gown? No. Too big, too noticeable. Wouldn't fit in his bag, at that.  
  
His scarf. His scarf, the scarf he used to wear. The one the detective left huddled up in the corner of his closet, partly forgotten after Mrs Hudson presented him with a new one. It still even smelled like the man, not that John _ever_ paid attention to that.  
  
The scarf smelled like Sherlock, and it smelled like the wardrobes in 221B. A box of nicotine patches caught his eye, and a memory flashed across John's mind: Sherlock lying down on the couch, gesturing with three patches on his arm at Mrs Hudson to go away, for Greg to shut up and for John to listen.  
  
He grabbed that too, and stuffed everything into the bag.  
  
He stared at it again.  
  
He was ready. John was ready. John exhaled slowly, and turned around, his feet moving in a familiar military march that conveyed respect. He respected this place. It was home.  
  
He made his way upstairs, climbing up the familiar steps for the last time. He crawled under his covers, relishing each movement, trying to imprint the small, habitual motions into his brain. He was leaving the life he knew, after all. Surely he could be permitted this.  
  
He fell asleep trying to memorize the patterns on his butter yellow ceiling.  
  
\----  
  
Morning.  
  
The alarm rang precisely at zero-five-hundred, and John turned it off. He always woke up a few minutes before five, as his practice had been in the army. He sat on his bed, and sighed. He looked up to the ceiling, and whispered to the powers-that-be for luck.  
  
Today was the day he was going to die. John tried saying it. _I’m going to die today_. It left a weird taste in his mouth, and John swallowed and repeated it out loud.  
  
“I’m going to die today.”  
  
It didn’t make it any easier.  
  
But at least now, he could look for Sherlock. Now, he could look for Sherlock in relative peace, and not worry about his loved ones getting harmed because of this lunacy he was engaging in.  
  
At the end of the day, that was why he was going to ‘kill’ John Watson. So John Watson’s loved ones will be safe.  
  
John sighed. Still didn’t make it any easier.  
  
 _Well. That’s that, then._  
  
He stood up. He had a long day ahead of him, and he’d better get started.  
  
He was dying today, after all.  
  
\-----  
  
The dry grass crunched under his boots as John made his way to the hopefully empty grave of Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing the flat cap he bought, the counterpart to Hat-man’s deerstalker, to cover his hair. John didn’t see many other visitors, not uncommon for a week-day. The black headstone was partly visible now, shadowed by the pine tree.  
  
John had a vague idea of what he was going to say, but when he arrived at the grave, he was silent.  This was the last chance to back out.  
  
He wasn’t going to.  
  
“Sherlock, if you can hear me, I came to say goodbye.” John paused, trying to remember the script he wrote for this earlier. He couldn’t. He improvised. “I’ve tried to remember what life was like before you, but all I can remember is how I was so alone. I didn’t care what happened to me, but nothing happened to me. Nothing good, nothing bad. I can’t...I just can’t do that again. So I’m...” He inhaled, a little too sharply for a pretend goodbye. It felt too real. “You were my best friend. Maybe we’ll meet again. Goodbye Sherlock.”  
  
He reached his hand out to touch the top of the marker, like before, before walking away despondently.  
  
John wondered if he would ever get this close to his best friend’s grave again.  
  
Hours later, after reviewing the footage, Mycroft Holmes would be alerted of the message. It would be too late.  
  
\---  
  
It was easier than John thought.  
  
Really, it was. Considerably.  
  
With almost the whole of the hospital was on your side, it wasn’t really that much of a stretch that stealing a body wouldn’t be difficult. Also, as John was already a doctor, it wasn’t too hard to act like he knew what was going on and that he actually worked at the hospital. Sort of.  
  
Greg Laurie was supposed to meet him in the office early that morning, talk to him about how to acquire the body, and let him borrow his car. Instead, John found the other doctor bickering with someone in the small room, and John waited outside the office as patiently as he can.  
  
The man stormed out after a few minutes, and Greg emerged from the room with a huge grin.  
  
“Don’t worry about anything Doctor Leonard – I will take care of your patient with extra love and care!”  
  
Doctor Leonard turned around and stopped. He walked back, and glared at Greg. “You still owe me lunch, Laurie.”  
  
“I thought that sandwich was free for all.”  
  
“It had my name on the package!”  
  
“You didn’t have a name on the food itself! You should write it down with a biro.” Greg said. Doctor Leonard rolled his eyes, looking like he didn’t really expect to win, and just walked away, shutting himself in another office.  
  
John looked up at Greg. “Having a little domestic?”  
  
“We’re not together, although we can be in your head if you like.” Greg grinned widely, winking at John.  
  
John rolled his eyes and sighed in impatience. “I don’t have long, Greg, and you know it. I’ve got somewhere I have to be and I need _something_ along with me…”  
  
“Got somewhere important to go? Leaving this plane of existence?”  
  
John glared at him. “Anytime, _doctor_.”  
  
“Follow me.” Greg said, and he hobbled out of the office. He tossed John a white coat and John shrugged it on. It felt different. He was more used to the uniform of an army doctor.  
  
They walked into the Palliative Care Unit, Greg exuding the arrogant air he always had, and John trying his best not to remember how similar it felt being with him to how it was being with Sherlock.  
  
Greg tapped his cane loudly in the middle of the department. “Listen up. This is Doctor Dolittle. He’s here with me consulting on a case. Whatever he does, just let him do it. Got it?”  
  
Nobody answered. Greg shrugged, and called on two orderlies. “Do whatever he asks. Oh, and, did that man in forty-two die already?”  
  
One of the orderlies nodded, and said that the machines had just been recently disconnected. Greg smiled. He patted John on the back. “Well then, Doctor, he’s all yours.” Greg turned to leave, and then stopped. “Oh, and here.” Greg tossed him some keys. “Take care of my car, it’s the only one I have. Go in peace, Doctor McCoy.”  
  
John exhaled. Yes, he was going to do this. There was no turning back. He had already dyed his hair ginger.  
  
The orderlies had very confused looks on their faces. “Doctor who?” the tall, thin one on the right asked. Why did Greg have to use those fake names? John really hated Greg Laurie sometimes. Most times probably.  
  
“Doctor Smith...Jones. Doctor Smith-Jones.” he said, coughing lightly hoping that would keep them from noticing his hesitation. He stared them down, trying to see if they would call him on it. They seemed to accept his horrible alias. John really watched too much Doctor Who.  
  
He tried his best not to act like a captain, and more like a civilian doctor. “So, ah, mates, forty-two?”  
  
The orderlies shrugged, and showed him in. The man was being covered with a bed sheet, and the tag on the foot told John that it was going to the morgue. John nodded in approval, and peeked behind the bed sheet. Yes, that was the man that he needed.  
  
“I’m going to need a body bag.” John said with a slight grin. The orderly raised an eyebrow. “Ah… Doctor Laurie and I have an understanding that I need these bodies for a… scientific experiment on… tobacco ash.”  
  
John inwardly cringed. _Tobacco ash? Really, John?_  
  
“Tobacco ash, Doctor?” The orderly repeated sceptically. “This man has been in a coma for six months. How does tobacco ash play into it?”  
  
John didn’t know. So he made something up. “There are as many as 243 types of tobacco ash that I can identify. The experiment to be conducted has something to do with its effects on post-mortem skin and internal organs.”  He recited, recalling a little of Sherlock’s deleted post on his blog.  
  
John paused. He needed something to convince these two orderlies to help _without_ breathing a word about it to anyone. Then it hit him.  
  
Sherlock had used this tactic on other people, and it always made them want to keep a secret – after all, they’re part of it now, and that made people want to be part of the circle. John leaned over, and whispered.  “Part of a government investigation. Classified.”  
  
One of the orderlies grinned, and the other one looked like he was in awe. “Classified?”  
  
“Yes. Now, will you help me get this to Doctor Laurie’s car?” John smiled at them, and nodded, as if he was affirming that they’re part of the secret now.  
  
John had never seen anyone move that fast before, not even in the war.  
  
\-----  
  
John drove back to the flat with a huge, triumphant smile on his face. He shouldn’t really be happy while driving with a corpse in the boot, but he was. Everything was going along better than it should be. He had a body, his plan was all set, and everything was going along just fine. He expected to be back at the flat in a few minutes without any trouble.  
  
But things never really work out the way he wanted them to.  
  
He swore when he saw the lights in the rear view mirror. John frowned at the dashboard, making sure he followed each and every traffic law. He didn’t want to get pulled over with a body in the truck because of something he wasn’t aware he did.  
  
The officer signalled for him to pull over. Just his luck. He took out his mobile and sent a quick text to Anderson, hoping that he could do something.  
  
 **Marylebone Road and Lisson Grove NOW**  
 **JW**  
  
John gritted his teeth, and remembered his recent change in identity, so he sent Anderson a quick text before the officer stepped out of the car.  
  
 **call me arthur dent**  
  
The officer walked up to the driver side and John rolled down the window, fumbling with the turn handle. When the window was down all the way, he looked up with a friendly smile. “Afternoon, officer.”  
  
“Good Afternoon, Sir. I'm Officer Burke…" The officer flashed his badge, and rattled off his precinct number and other related information that John didn't catch. He was too busy thinking and trying not to grimace and show his anxiety. The officer's next few words jolted him out of his thoughts.  “Do you know why you have been stopped, sir?”  
  
John plastered what he hoped was a confused-but-sincere smile on his face. _I thought it might have something to do with the body in the boot, sir._ “Sorry, no. Was I driving too fast?”  
  
Burke flashed him a smile, and shook his head. “No, you have been stopped for a search sir. The number of the car you've been driving is on our roster here for suspected drug trafficking and possession under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. Do you own this vehicle, Mr?” The officer paused, and held out a hand. “May I see your license and registration please?”  
  
John had never wanted to murder anyone more than he wanted to murder his ‘friend’ right now. He would plan Greg Laurie’s death with an imagination only a soldier could pull up from his mind, but maybe later. He had other things to worry about. _Drug trafficking and possession? What the hell has he been doing?_  
  
“Dent. Arthur Dent.” John sighed, and gestured at the steering wheel. “No, this belongs to my friend Doctor Laurie.”  
  
John pulled out his new license with mostly feigned confidence - but, no. Steve Tabernacle was good at his job, and he knew it. He had come highly recommended. “I'm not sure where he keeps the registration, if you'll give me a minute to...” He dug through the glove compartment, looking for the registration deliberately slowly. _Where the bloody hell is Anderson?_ “Ah, here it is.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.” Officer Burke accepted the registration and the license, looked it over and gave it back to John. John exhaled. He didn’t expect the license to be put to test so early, but it passed with flying colours. “Mr Dent, I am going to search your car. It would be in your best interest to cooperate. You may or may not be present during the search, although I would advise you to remain for any clarifications.”  
  
The officer shined a light through the windows in the backseat, and John tried not to let his jitters show every time the officer got too close to the compartment. It was just like the time he needed to smuggle medical supplies across enemy lines, he told himself. Only then, the consequence was fairly simple _: death_. Now… ah, not so simple. He didn't even want to know what would happen if they find him carting along a dead body that looked uncannily like him.“Can you please open the back doors and the compartment, sir?”  
  
John swallowed. This couldn't seriously be happening. It was only a four minute trip from the hospital to the flat. He nodded and slowly got out of the car. Thanking the heavens for older cars, he slowly made his way to the other side of the car to unlock the respective doors, and he took precious time with it. His phone buzzed and beeped, and he grinned at the officer apologetically and checked. _Anderson. Thank god._  
  
 _On my way. What's going on?_  
  
 **Been pulled over for a search. The thing's in the car.**  
  
 _Hang on, I can see you._  
  
John unlocked all the doors to the car first, taking sweet and precious time. He glanced at the officer, who looked calm and patient nonetheless, like he had nothing else better to do.  
  
When he walked back to unlock the boot, he dropped the keys. The officer picked up the keys and handed them over, his patience obviously thinning as John felt the man's hand tense as he gave the keys. John shut his eyes, exhaling through his mouth. He pushed the key into the slot, and was about to turn it when, conveniently, like in every action-comedy movie he has watched, someone arrived to save his arse.  
  
"Officer! Oh, oh it's you! David!" Anderson had arrived. John maintained an impassive face, mostly because if he didn't he would be grinning like an idiot and that would make him look suspicious.  
  
The officer shook hands with Anderson, and John, for the umpteenth time, thanked the heavens for his rather good luck. The two knew each other. Wonderful. "Oh! Anderson! How's the wife - wait, no, sorry, I'm in the middle of a search." Officer Burke said. He looked pointedly at John, and gestured at him to open the boot.  
  
"What, him? Oh, Arthur!" Anderson clapped John on the back, trying to not look too awkward while doing it. John smiled as nicely as he could under the circumstances. "I know him. What are you searching him for?"  
  
"Drugs." Officer Burke said. "Got his vehicle's number on the roster."  
  
"What? This bloke, drugs?" Anderson scoffed, and he shook his head. He grinned at the officer, and leaned in a little closer with a stage whisper. "He doesn't even smoke! He's one of my best mates - and he's been having a trying time lately and I would appreciate it if we just let him be, you know…" Anderson shook his head with a sigh. "Friend just died. Awful mess."  
  
The officer shook his head, whistling in sympathy. "Ah." He stretched a little, and nodded at John apologetically. "I still do have a lot of other vehicles to go through." He turned to Anderson. "Say hi to the wife for me."  
  
"Will do, pint sometime?"  
  
The officer nodded at Anderson, waved and took off into the London traffic.  
  
John watched the officer leave. He inhaled through his teeth, showing his relief as Anderson paced in front of him. "You just saved me from prison. Thank you."  
  
"...That was close. Too close." Anderson said. He gestured at John and the car. "Who the hell did you borrow this car from? I have half a mind to search it myself!"  
  
"Just an old friend from St. Mary's." John almost raised his hands defensively, but opted to cross his arms. "I swear, I wouldn't have taken him up on the offer of the car if I'd known. I have half a mind to use him now instead."  
  
"Be more careful next time. I can't help you every single time, _Arthur_." Anderson lectured. He shook his head, and went to the car and grabbed a large, brown envelope. "Here are the diagrams."  
  
"I'll try my best." John answered, and he took the envelope. He gingerly pulled out the multiple papers covered with arrows, angles and illustrations, and knotted his forehead as he took everything in. "I don't suppose you could come make sure I do this correctly?"  
  
Anderson looked over his shoulder. "Everything's on that." He glanced at John, and looked into the far distance. "I can't, John. I can't be mixed up with all this. I'm sorry. Least I could do is process your scene."  
  
John nodded in understanding. It was fine, really. He didn't even expect Anderson to come this far, but the man had. Man of his word, indeed. John believed it. "Alright. I'll be off then."  
  
Anderson got into his car, but called out before John could get into his. "Oh, and John…" He paused, as if considering something. "Say hi to Sherlock for me."  
  
John nodded. It was the last time he was ever going to see the other man as himself, and John was far too aware of it. "I'm sure he'll have plenty to say back to you. Goodbye Anderson, and thanks."  
  
\---  
  
John grunted with effort. The body bag was heavier than he expected.  
  
 _I carried Sherlock through the flat the last time he was unconscious. How the hell could this be harder to do?!_  
  
The term dead weight was clearly there for a reason.  
  
John groaned, and shouldered the flat’s door open. He looked around, making sure that no one had been paying attention, and shut the door.  
  
He left the body leaning against the stairs and he headed into the living room. He grabbed the pair of leather gloves from his bag of things and put them on.  
  
Everything seemed to be in relative order. As in order as things could be. He was going to kill himself after all and _dammit_ he just couldn’t say that without reacting. Couldn’t say it with a straight, unflinching face, not even to himself.  
  
He took a little breather, and then started to pull the body again, but stopped realizing he didn’t want the body to have weird marks because he was too lazy to carry it. And so John slung it over his shoulder, and dumped it on Sherlock’s sofa.  
  
John took a deep breath and then gingerly removed the body from the body bag. He grimaced. He could see the resemblance between him and the man, and it scared him. It felt surreal, like something out of Doctor Who. John grabbed the clothes he’d set aside and dressed the corpse in them.  
  
He grabbed the bag of blood he set aside and carefully squeezed it into the water gun he bought for the occasion. He sprayed a little in the sink - a little more viscous than water, but it worked. He took his letter, and put it beside the corpse. He stepped back to look at the scene. Something was missing. John took off his newsboy hat and placed it on the body’s head. Perfect.  
  
He placed the suicide note gingerly beside the body, and posed it so that it seemed like he was trying to reach for or place the note beside him. John registered that he actually referred to the body as a he, and John sighed. “Sorry, mate, no hard feelings. You are essential for this working.”  
  
John retrieved his Browning from his room, almost sad that he’d have to leave it behind. He’d saved Sherlock with this gun. He looked at the diagrams Anderson had made and wrapped the corpses’ right hand around the handle of the gun, moving the index finger to the trigger. He pressed the barrel of the gun to the jugular, angling it to destroy most of the face.  
  
His finger pressed down and the gun went off with a loud crack.  
  
John exhaled forcefully. There. He’d done it. Days of planning and now he would be able to search for his best friend. He stared at the destroyed facial features of the corpse for a second before he realized that he needed to finish setting up his death. John grabbed the blood-filled water gun and squirted a fair amount of his blood onto the new bullet holes, watching it drip down the neck from the burst jugular vein. He turned to the wall facing the exit wound and sprayed part of the blood there. There was some of the Joe Bloggs’s on the wall already, giving him an estimate of where to aim.  He spattered the remaining blood on his oatmeal jumper, the gun, and a bit on the couch.  
  
Giving everything a final look, he gathered the body bag, the blood bag, and the water gun into a pile  
and shoved them into a bin bag. His other things were waiting in the car, but John stood in the middle of the flat, looking around, trying to memorize it all. Remembering when the Cluedo board had been pinned to the wall. Seeing the skull that Sherlock had called his friend before meeting John. Hopefully they’d be able to come back to 221B. Together.  
  
\---  
  
"When I heard the shot I thought it was just Sherlock again, bored and... then I remembered he was gone." Mrs Hudson cried and struggled to wipe her tears. Greg wanted to comfort the poor woman, but the whole of Yard was watching and he couldn’t be personal with witnesses. "It was awful when I got up there. He- he-.. there was so much blood! Oh my boys, my boys..."  
  
“Donovan, take her to the kitchen and give her a cup of tea, will you?” Greg said, massaging his temples. He didn’t need this. _Why, John? Why of all days would you kill yourself today? On my wedding anniversary?_  
  
The morning had started out fine. He had been making dinner reservations over landline when his mobile rang. Greg had decided that this would be the day he would win his wife back. Fitting, on their thirteenth anniversary. Wife had always been superstitious - explained the bad marriage away because Greg broke a mirror on their wedding. It never got better. Today he was going to change all that.  
  
Greg checked the number. He didn’t recognize it.  
  
“Is this Mr Lestrade?”  
  
The woman on the other end sounded like she was about to cry.  
  
“Yes? Who is this?”  
  
The woman _did_ cry at this point, making Greg feel a little more alert. “Hello? Ma’am? This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. May I ask who this is?”  
  
“It’s - “  The woman sniffled - “Mrs Hudson, dear, from Baker Street. John told me to call if there are any problems and I just...” She sobbed, and Greg winced. He didn’t like hearing _anyone_ cry, not even at crime scenes. Hell, not even his own wife.  
  
Greg started a little in surprise, and stood up. “Yes, Mrs Hudson? What can I do for you?”  
  
“I... I found John.” Mrs Hudson said, and she broke down into tears. It didn’t matter what happened next, or what else she would say, Greg sped over to 221B before he even put the landline down.  
  
Greg arrived with Mrs Hudson frantic and crying in front of the flat. “I’m waiting for the police Mr Les -”  
  
“Greg, Mrs Hudson, please.”  
  
“-Greg, and they’re still not here and I can’t go up there. I’m sorry.” The elderly woman gave him a hug and rested her forehead on his shoulder. Greg froze, but shook his head. He was an Inspector at the Scotland Yard, dammit, and he was going to act like one.  
  
“Mrs Hudson, tell me what happened.”  
  
“I found John, Greg.” Greg could hear his pulse in his ears. He knew he wouldn’t like what he would hear next. Mrs Hudson pulled back, and looked at Greg. “I found him dead on the sofa.”  
  
Greg was thankful he had the presence of mind to move Mrs. Hudson aside and to run up the stairs, clutching his mobile in one hand and frantically calling the chief, Anderson, Sally, Dimmock - all of them, anyone he could reach.  
  
The sight that met his eyes made him sick. And he had never been sick in a crime scene before, not even when he was a rookie. He scrambled back down the stairs, and dry-heaved outside.  
  
...No. _Not John._ No. This... this wasn’t happening. John Watson was one of the strongest people he has ever met. This was the man who shot that damned dog without flinching. He was a good friend, the one who told him to suck it up and make his marriage right again and to actually _work_ at it for a change and -  
  
No he simply _cannot_ be dead.  
  
The next few minutes were a blur. It felt to him like the whole of Yard came, and Greg was grateful that they did so he could just turn off most of his emotions and he could _work_. He looked at the gore, the blood, deliberately moving his eyes away from John’s body.  
  
Dimmock set him aside and whispered to him that he probably shouldn’t take the case. He was too close. Greg agreed without protest and told Dimmock everything that he can as he was the first to respond, and Greg also pointed out that Mrs Hudson was the one who found John.  
  
Greg volunteered to interview, even if Dimmock protested. Greg told him that they already had rapport. He insisted he would interview.  
  
He felt like he needed to hear it for himself. And so Greg had asked Mrs Hudson, and he heard the story.  
  
Poor woman. Her two tenants had died. Both from suicide.  
  
Poor Greg. Two of his friends have died. Both from suicide.  
  
He detached himself as they processed the crime scene. He insisted upon watching, even if he didn’t have to, even if he was off the case. Dimmock looked like he wanted to send Greg away, but Greg knew Dimmock understood.  
  
Anderson and Sally looked at him mournfully. Even for them, this was too much. Anderson even promised  that this will be the cleanest processing he would ever do. Greg nodded in silent agreement. Anderson knew John too. Even if they weren’t friends, at the end of the day, it was still someone he knew. It was different if you knew someone. Always different.  
  
He watched as Anderson gingerly picked up bloodied paper and slide it into the evidence bag. Before Anderson could stop him, Greg already snatched the paper. It was a letter. Suicide note. No doubt in his mind now. Gunshot or not, there’s a note. And Anderson said the patterns were consistent. Everything was consistent. _Suicide_. _God, John. Why?_  
  
He read the note, even if he could hear Anderson protest in the background.  
  
 _I feel alone. I feel so alone._  
  
 _It’s been four weeks since he died. I’m tired. I’ve had enough._  
  
 _Funny, I watched a lot of my friends die on the battlefield, so why couldn’t I handle this one?_  
  
 _He told me that people leave a note when they do this. So here’s mine._  
  
 _Sorry everyone. I’m so sorry._  
  
 _Bury me next to him._  
  
 _I quit._  
  
 ** _JW_**  
  
The man had signed it like a text message, the way Sherlock usually did it, with his initials.  
  
Greg exhaled slowly. This was not happening. It wasn’t. No.  
  
John H. Watson killed himself.  
  
Greg watched as they carried the body to the coroner’s van and to the morgue. Dimmock insisted they take the body to St. Mary’s, knowing that Molly knew John and it wasn’t how they should handle it. Greg agreed. Molly had already done Sherlock’s body. It would probably break her to do John’s, too.  
  
He wanted to stay until the end of processing the scene, to see it through, but found that he couldn’t. Greg shook his head, tapped Dimmock on the shoulder, and Dimmock nodded at him. He left.  
  
Greg couldn’t take this. No, not today. It was his anniversary, dammit. It was not fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link to the livejournal post with links to the clothing/items featured in this chapter: http://2schadenfreude.livejournal.com/2427.html


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We would, again, like to thank everyone for waiting patiently. We hope you loved those Static updates we put up, and we couldn’t stress enough that you should read those, really. (Seriously, if you haven’t read them yet, stop reading this now and go do that.) We’re hiding more feels and plot points in there. :D I know, I know we took three months but you can’t rush art, yeah? (ha, ha) But anyway, we hope you enjoy this chapter!

Arthur Dent’s life was utterly and miserably _boring_. His colleagues constantly teased him about living up to his namesake’s life before the destruction of the earth in Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy.  
  
Arthur’s response was to laugh and regale them with stories of his mediocre life. Stories about his dead end job as a barista at Starbucks, running out of toothpaste in the morning and rushing off to Tesco to buy another. Stories about primary school, and sibling rivalry - normal, ordinary, things that most people experience. He would joke they’d be lucky if something really interesting happened, perhaps aliens invading the world like in Doctor Who, maybe even becoming a companion, at that.  
  
Arthur never complained, at least, not out loud, not to anyone. To everyone, he seemed content, comfortable, although they would admit that he seemed a little...‘dead’. One of his more perceptive colleagues (a lovely, intelligent, young college student who quit when she found a better job as a secretary somewhere) told him that he looked pained when he thought no one could see. Arthur had laughed at this, and told her that he was thinking he may have left the lights on at the flat and how that would be hell on his bills when he already had money problems. The girl merely shook her head and smiled back reassuringly, as if she knew something about him but would never tell.  
  
When asked about plans for the future, Arthur would answer along the lines of ‘I’m still looking for that _something_ ’. Nobody ever said that it was probably too late for him, even if people would point this out behind his back. Instead, they would tell him that it was fine, everyone goes through that, it was never too late. He would say something about writing a novel to get them off his back, and divulge during breaks in customers about writing detective stories and wanting to publish them someday, like Agatha Christie, and they would all laugh and forget about it.  
  
Everyone would tell you that Arthur was a nice bloke. Polite. Smiled a lot. Smelled nice. Looked fit. Would make for a decent partner - at least, all his female friends say that, and they would actually jump at the chance to go out with him, if only he was _interested_ , but he even turned down the men who asked him out. Eventually everyone just assumed he wasn’t on the market.  
  
After a bit more prodding, they would exclaim that they knew absolutely nothing about him. Nothing personal, nothing that really mattered. People would tell you that he was an average guy, someone you’d pass on the pavement and wouldn’t think anything of. He sounded smart, smarter than he looked - and would have a better future if he didn’t stick to his current job. Maybe if he took up some night classes or something and become a businessman or a doctor, _anything_ besides staying in the foodservice industry as a Starbucks barista, not that anything was wrong with _that_.  
  
They’d tell you that all they knew of him was he’s a normal bloke, okay to be around, that man you invited to a pub who would always tell you that something came up. He was that man you’d only know at work and nowhere else. He was the sort of man that people would promptly forget when they arrived home.  
  
Unremarkable. Normal.    
  
A day in the life of Arthur Dent would go like this:  
  


  1. Wake up, check phone. Take a shower, fix lunch - tight budget, you know how it is, go to work.
  2. Work. A barista’s job never ends, especially not at a chain like Starbucks.
  3. Break - lunch. A nice sandwich, maybe, or splurge on something from that nicer cafe nearby if it was payday.
  4. Back to work.
  5. End shift. Talk to some people, hang around a little. Get asked out by a colleague, invited to a pub. Turn them down, turn them all down - he is writing that novel he told you about when someone asks why not.
  6. Go home. Check phone. Do chores. Watch telly.
  7. Sleep.
  8. Rinse and repeat, except on weekends, when he visits his cousin in Dartmoor.



  
\-----  
  
A day in the life of _John Watson_ would go like this:  
  


  1. Wake up, check phone. _Check other phone, make sure that there are no texts from Anderson, Henry, Greg Laurie or Mrs Hudson. Make sure that there are no texts from Steve Tabernacle (or Thomas Lawson, whichever alias he used that day) or any of his other contacts._ Take a shower, make lunch. _Check e-mails. Make sure there‘s no news about Sherlock Holmes, and definitely none about Mycroft Holmes._ Go to work.
  2. Work. _Miss being a doctor. Wish to god that he’d been able to at least pick up a job at a clinic, but knew he couldn’t do that. Even a job at a morgue looking for the causes of death, anything that wouldn’t be this... boring. Jesus, he’s turning into Sherlock._
  3. Break- lunch. _Check phones again in the loo, breathe easy when he hears nothing from the people back home, and feel just a bit sad about it. Be frustrated when there’s nothing on the informant front._
  4. Back to work. _Think about the next steps he needs to take. Sometimes waiting was the hardest part. He knew he needed to be patient, and even though dealing with Sherlock Holmes had given him the patience of a saint, this waiting game was fraying every bit of his last threads. He needed news. Anything. Anything at all._
  5. End shift. Chat with some people, _just enough to make Arthur seem like a good bloke. Private, but a good bloke. Say some nice things, lie about that novel he’s writing - hah, detective stories, if only they knew - and turn down every offer of socialization. After this, after all of this, when he finds Sherlock again, he’ll be leaving, and he cannot be attached. Won’t be attached.  He’s learned a lot from that Doctor Who episode, when the Doctor turned human. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake._
  6. Go home. _Check phones. Still no news. That’s fine, all fine. Keep busy. Put up plans. What to do, where to go next. Check e-mails._ Do chores. Watch the telly, _keep on the lookout for any suspicious activities from criminals, keep on the lookout for any news regarding his friends. Watch Greg Lestrade on the news talk about yet another hard case, and he can read the stress all over his face. Turn it off, unable to bear watching anymore of it._
  7. _Go out and search for Sherlock, look for clues._
  8. Sleep, _pray to God the nightmares won’t come. Always about Sherlock falling. Always about everyone he left dying because he wasn’t there to take care of them._
  9. Rinse and repeat, except on weekends, where he leaves for Dartmoor to speak to Steve Tabernacle, Henry Knight and look for Sherlock and new informants.



  
Dr John Watson, would sometimes read a few medical web articles that he’s subscribed to in another name, just to stay updated on current medical practices. It was going to be hard when he comes back from the dead, something he really wanted to do soon.  He would probably need the help of Mycroft Holmes, British Government, when re-applying for his medical license. Sometimes he practises stitching on the roast that he cooks for himself, Henry, and the rest of his new ‘team’ during weekends. Occasionally, Steve would bring some friends by who needed some patching up. All well and good, at least he was able to practise medicine on someone.  
  
John Watson, Captain, was chafing under all the monotony. For a brief moment he remembered what his life had been like before Sherlock Holmes, invalided home after being shot. The monotony of everyday life, nothing really happening, at least nothing worth notice. The only improvement between then and now was the hope that someday he’d find Sherlock, because he would find him, and they could go back to bickering over the experiments in the fridge. He missed the danger, the chases through the London streets, hell, he even missed being kidnapped by Mycroft.  
  
Sure, someone could argue that there was plenty of danger in faking your death in order to chase after a madman, but John didn’t feel that rush of adrenaline when he was standing behind the counter making small talk with the customers, or while measuring the correct amount of coffee to put in the expensive beverages. He did have to stop himself from clocking some of the customers that offhandedly mentioned Sherlock being a fraud, and that would be the most interesting thing that would happen to him the entire day.  
  
\----  
  
One of his colleagues, a young woman in her twenties named Karen, was John’s companion for the day. They were eating sandwiches from the ‘other cafe’ during an uncommonly slow lunch, and Karen had chosen John to talk to.  
  
Karen was new, that was why. Usually, the novelty of the mysterious older barista wore off after a week or so.  
  
“Arthur, you know, I never really found out where you’re from.” She began, and John looked up almost innocently at her. It wasn’t hard to do anymore. He had three months of practice.  
  
It was bad, the first time he tried. Laughable, really. The manager eyed him suspiciously when he didn’t have an answer to who he was and where he was from, and almost fired him on the spot if he wasn’t able to bluff his way out of it. Steve Tabernacle, his con man extraordinaire, was right. Think on your feet, believe in your lies - give half-truths instead of making everything up, so it would be easier. He told the manager that he was honourably discharged from the army and needed a new start, that he was working through a lot of things. After that, there were no other questions about his past. The manager said something about serving himself, and not being able to pick himself up by much. That was why he was at a Starbucks.  
  
The manager resigned after that week because he was getting married to an old sweetheart and had a job offer from his new father-in-law. Some people have all the luck.  
  
After that, people came and went, especially the university students who needed a bit of money before the holidays.Karen was their latest addition.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Karen twirled her coffee stirrer. One perk of working at Starbucks? Free coffee. “I mean, you kind of just popped up in the middle of London, and starting working here, in this branch. At least, that’s what I got from the others.” She looked up alarmingly, and waved a hand in defence. “Not that I’m prying or anything! I was just... curious. Where were you before you worked here?”  
  
John gave her a kind, long-suffering smile, that told her that he’s been asked many times and doesn’t mind answering. “Oh. I was from Cardiff. Decided to move after a really... really bad relationship with a friend.” People usually assumed this was his partner or something. No one ever asked about the friend. They just nodded like they understood.  
  
They didn’t. How could they, if they didn’t ask?  
  
John wasn’t about to volunteer information though. The less they asked, the less he had to lie.  
  
With every other colleague, that had ended the conversation, but Karen seemed to be better at this than everyone else was, or just more curious. She looked at John with genuine concern, and those brown eyes weirdly reminded John of Molly’s whenever she asked Sherlock how he was. “I’m sorry. May I ask what happened?”  
  
Oh, what the hell. Half-truths, right? “They committed suicide.” Well, sort of.  
  
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. It was, it very much was, but this was new on him. No one, not a single person, had ever asked before. They just assumed that whoever he or she was, it was too painful to talk about, especially when John donned a look of pain and loss that he had perfected. It worked because the look wasn’t a pure lie.  
  
There was silence in the shop. Their other colleagues, obviously eavesdropping, heard and paused what they were doing.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Karen said, breaking the ice. “We - I didn’t know.”  
  
John smiled at her sadly. That wasn’t hard, too. “It... happens. I just... really miss them, you know.” This was as close as ‘Arthur’ would ever get to telling the ‘truth’. “Sometimes I feel like they’re still alive.” John inwardly scoffed at this. He was developing a rather pawky sense of humour. Too bad he was the only one who understood how funny it was.  
  
Karen nodded sadly. “Yeah.” She looked up, and watched as another colleague , Rory, sat at their table. “I get it, mate. I had a friend who did the same. We watched him...” The man shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how we watched him. But everyone needed to get away, and we all just wanted to forget. I’m so sorry for your loss.” A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes it feels like the bumbling clod is still with us. Memories are a powerful thing.”  
  
John nodded with a smile. The questions stopped after that, and no one asked about where Arthur Dent came from. They all acted like they knew who he was now, though John knew they had _no idea_.  
  
An ounce of truth really did go a long way.  
  
\----  
  
 _Saturday, 24 November, 16:13_  
  
John was never a fan of close calls, even and _especially_ when he was a doctor and a soldier. Close calls tended to be fatal for him and for the people around him, people he was trying to help.  
  
Being found out that he wasn’t really dead was fatal for the people around him and maybe even for the person he’s trying to find, so he wasn’t really looking for people who might recognise him.  
  
But somehow, they keep on _finding_ him.  
  
The bus ride to Eaton Square from work wasn’t a long one, but it seemed to be far too long when a chipper young man, named _John_ of all things, ended up sitting in the seat adjacent to him. Of course, that wasn’t the reason for John’s inner turmoil.  
  
The young man had been staring at him for a few minutes, with an awestruck look before quickly moving to occupy the aisle seat in John’s row.  
  
“Hullo!” he said brightly. When he realised that John wasn’t going to answer, he continued in the same bright tone. “My name’s John and I am a _huge_ fan of your blog.”  
  
 _Don’t panic, John. Deny everything._  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even own a computer.” Another partial truth. Henry let him borrow his extra laptop. Henry Knight had proved to be very generous, willing to help John with anything he needed in repayment for taking his case in March. He was even letting John stay at his new home on Eaton Square.  
  
“Wow, really? I could have sworn that you were Doctor John Watson. I mean, you look just like him. Are you his clone?” the younger John rattled off, sounding like a curious five-year-old. His head was cocked to one-side like an interested puppy, and he frowned at John like a sad one.  
  
Fortunately, before John could insist that he was _not_ John Watson, another bus rider, an older man whose hair was peppered with grey, chimed in. “John Watson, who blogged about that detective Sherlock Holmes? He’s dead, they both are now. Right shame, that. I don’t believe the press about what happened. My nephew was being driven out of his mind and Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson proved he hadn’t gone yumpy.”  
  
It gave John hope that there were people out there who believed in his best friend. It made him feel less alone.  
  
The older man turned in his seat to peer at John and raised his brows. “You do look a lot like his picture though.”  
  
And all his gratitude melted away.  
  
John closed his eyes, praying that the bus would come to a stop, any stop, just so he could escape further scrutiny.    
\-----  
 _Monday, 3 December, 10:35_  
  
Monday mornings at the coffee shop were insanely busy. There was a constant stream of people coming in to order their venti lattes and iced mochas. John was on the drink station today, taking a break from the register, and there was an almost therapeutic routine to grabbing the cup, reading the order, and adding the syrups, milk and coffee. He fully expected today to be the same, to stick to the routine.  
  
His colleagues tended to gossip about the various customers that come in, pretending to guess about the stranger’s life, which reminded John of a game Sherlock used to do when bored, except he was _accurate_. They also tended to jostle each other around despite the space, which actually made John feel like their _father_ when he had to break up the fun behind the counter.  
  
It was a normal Monday, the type he’d started resigning himself to, until about half past 10, when John overheard his colleagues discussing a customer who just ordered. That wasn’t the unusual part of his day. He got jostled around a bit as well, an elbow jabbing into his ribs that made him almost drop the order he was making.  
  
"If I didn't know better, I'd say that's that detective, the one that threw himself off tha' roof!"  
  
John hissed in pain as he poured the hot milk all over his hand instead of adding it to the latte.  
  
He pushed his hand under the faucet, letting the cool water wash away the milk. It was probably just a mistake. Someone tall, with a coat like Sherlock’s, tricking people who hadn’t seen the man outside the papers.  
  
A deep, baritone “Thank you” from the customer felt like a whole bucket of burning milk was poured over him.  
  
He turned, colour draining from his face. He caught a glimpse of a man with ginger curls pushing his way out of the door, and John immediately ran out, almost knocking over the order in one of the Uni kids’ hands.  
  
The man was gone when he got outside, and John swore. He glanced around, spinning a little, and he buried his hands into his hair.  
  
 _Please please please tell me I didn’t just miss Sherlock please please_  
  
God, he needed a bit of air.  
  
“You okay, Arthur?” The manager asked when he came back in. He must’ve looked like a mess, hair disheveled, glasses askew. He wondered if his face was pale. He felt peaky. “Is your other eye _blue_?”  
  
John shook his head. “I’m going out on my break now.” He choked out, and he knocked the contact back in with a seemingly random rub of his hand. “Sorry, I need a bit of air.”  
  
“It’s fine, we can handle it here. Take a little breather, will you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
He hoped to God he hadn’t, or else he just missed whom he had been looking for all along.  
  
\-----  
  
 _Monday, 3 December, 12:02_  
  
There were days when John wanted his past to haunt him. There was something about nostalgia and wistfulness that he welcomed every once in a while. Sherlock used to argue that he was just being sentimental, but John didn’t mind. Sometimes, that warm, comfortable feeling goes a long way.  
  
His dad used to tell him that it’s always good to remember where you’re from, because it’s a part of where you’re going. He might not be a huge fan of reminders of the past, but occasionally, he appreciated it.  
  
But not today. Maybe after all... _this,_ just not today. It was hard enough to _miss_ his old life, to miss being John Watson. He didn’t need to keep on seeing people from his past to make him painfully homesick. He already missed the dust that always accumulated on the mantle and the skull, people he lived and saw everyday notwithstanding.  
  
After the possible Sherlock sighting that morning, John wasn’t sure what else he could handle today. What happened on his lunch break made things harder than they should be.  
  
John had turned around the corner from his Starbucks and straight into a scene out of his own blog.  
  
There was a crime scene line running across the whole street, cordoning off the pavement and the cafe that he frequented. A dead body under a sheet lay in the centre, and there were numbers set up around the perimeter, marking the extra blood spatters and the bullet cartridges scattered around the road.  
  
It looked bad. John did not envy anyone working on that scene.  
  
The way the PCs looked, the case seemed just about hopeless. John had asked the nearby constable what was happening, and managed to charm some information out of him, getting a date in the process without meaning to - _what just happened?_ Steve’s tutorials worked maybe a _little_ too well, but it got him the information he needed.  
  
The man under the sheet had been seemingly murdered at point-blank range, but there were no witnesses. Aside from the shell casings and the body, there was no evidence of a crime happening at all. No one heard or saw anything, which wasn't possible with the amount of rounds littering the area. The security cameras had suffered technical errors at the time of the murder as well. It was very odd.  
  
It was a case for Sherlock Holmes himself.  
  
John peered from his position, trying to see how the blood had spattered, catching that the spatters were all wrong for a shooting at point-blank range. He blinked at this, and was unconsciously moving in for a closer look when he looked up, and saw Anderson coming out of the deli.  
  
Anderson paused, blinked, and cocked his head behind him in a panicked notion. He tried to block whoever was coming out, but the man merely sidestepped the forensic expert, glared, and turned to look where Anderson was facing.  
  
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stopped in his tracks, and stared at John. Their eyes met, and they both froze.  
  
John stepped back, turned, shouldered people aside and _ran._  
  
Sherlock _never_ failed to point out to John that he needed to listen to someone’s steps for it might indicate who was after him. He heard the slightly uneven pounding of the Inspector’s shoes behind him. John swore.  
  
Greg was following him.  
  
John inhaled through his teeth, and broke his running stride into a casual walk, weaving through the crowded street. He headed into Clarks, and with a quick nod to the salespersons he knew, he ducked into their back room and headed for the employees’ entrance, and stepped out. He dodged the smoke from another person’s cigarette, and rang the shop’s phone with his mobile.  
  
“Hello, this is Clarks Victoria Street, how may I help you today?”  
  
"Hey Brenda, this is Arthur.” John paced a bit but stopped, trying to keep his panicked voice under control. “Is there a man there, silver hair, claiming to be a Detective Inspector?" He stopped, looking up at the sky, and hoped to God that Brenda would not give him away.  
  
"Mhmm."  
  
"Don't believe a word he says. He's...well...he's my ex.” John cringed, and hoped that his unease at the lie fell through as nervous energy. “He's delusional. I filed a restraining order but I think he almost caught me today."  
  
God, this was a funny, bizarre, low excuse. Pretending that Greg Lestrade was his ex - ex- _what exactly_ \- Steve would get a kick out of this story and could just hear jokes about his standing with Greg come from a mile away.  
  
“All right sir, thank you for calling, I will take care of everything.”  
  
John released the breath he was holding. “Thank you. Thank you so much Brenda, I owe you one.”  
  
There was a click of the phone, and John resisted the urge to go back inside and watch how it went. He instead went back to Starbucks, and decided that maybe he should make use of his employee discount and just buy a sandwich from their display.  
  
That was close. That was _far_ too close. Greg looked like he’d aged ten years since the last time John had seen him. He supposed having two friends die, both from suicides _in the same year_ would do that to someone. As much as he missed Greg, and everyone else, there was too much at stake to be found now.  
  
He could not be sorrier for the people he left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have almost half of the next chapter written, so stay tuned for more, either here on Mobile, or Static! Again, thank you for the comments and kudos!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, plot moves! No really, plot. Yay, plot! And feels. Plot and feels. Thank you sooo much for waiting! Also, have you checked out Static? We updated Static, and we’re actually hiding plot points in there this time!
> 
> Anyway, read on and enjoy!

**25th August**

**RIP John Watson**

Sherlock fell down, and broke his crown, and Johnny shot himself after.  
RIP John Watson. You will be missed. Say hello to Sherlock for me.  
  
 **6 comments**  
You sick *comment filtered*! When I find out who you are, I’ll tear you to shreds!  
[ **Harry Watson**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/harrywatson) 25 Aug 12:22  
John’s dead?!  
[ **Bill Murray**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/billmurray) 25 August 12:45  
Look, I’m not a fan of John or his friend but this is just wrong.  
[ **Sally Donovan**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sallydonovan)[ 2](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/harrywatson)5 August 19:22  
I believe in Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. You’ll be missed, Doctor :(  
[ **Jacob Sowersby**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/jacobsowersby) 25 August 22:22  
He will be missed. But what is that message on about?  
[ **Mike Stamford**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/mikestamford) 25 August 22:37  
Oh my God, this is horrible. You’ll be missed John.  
[ **Molly Hooper**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/mollyhooper) 25 August 23:12  
You are all so cute.  
[ **Anonymous**](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/anonymous) 26 August 00:00  
  
\-----  
  
 _Sunday, 26 August_  
  
It had been another hard night, and John was really hoping for a better morning.  
  
He'd spent what felt like hours and hours of searching for Sherlock in the darkness, hearing his friend's voice calling out to him. John would scream back, _where are you Sherlock_ , and hear a sickening thud. He would then turn around and find his friend too late,  his dead, unseeing eyes staring up into the sky.  
  
John would wake up, and have the same dream three more times until he'd given up on sleep completely.  
  
His phone beeped- his mind vaguely registered that it was the ‘John’ one, and he hoped that it was great news for once.  
  
John groggily groped under his pillow for the beeping phone, slipping past the Beretta concealed there. He was up following a lead, tapping away on his laptop because his dreams refused to let him sleep soundly. It was going to be hell at work tomorrow - no, make that later.  
  
Finally locating the phone, he saw two texts on his ‘John’ phone. He opened Steve Tabernacle's message first and was a bit confused. Why would he need to check his old blog?  Making note of it, he scrolled to Anderson's, which said the same thing but with an insistent 'ASAP'. John furrowed his brow, and navigated to his blog.  
  
He stared dumbly at the entry that he _definitely_ didn't put in.  
  
 _Who...._  
  
He mashed the mobile keys as quickly as his fingers would allow.  
  
"I still have a retainer on you, yeah?"  
  
"And good morning to you too," a smooth voice answered. "Yes, doctor, I am still working for you. What do you need?"  
  
"Trace that blog entry. Now." John paused. "Please."  
  
"Right away," Steve said. "I'll get someone on it. We'll call you back."  
  
The call ended, and John pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
 _Who the hell posted that?_  
  
He gripped the table tightly, and shut his eyes. John felt like he was going to be sick all over his computer, and he just needed a minute to stop the world from blurring and spinning around him.  
  
The terror felt like someone was gripping his insides and twisting slowly. He wasn't sure what was going on, and he couldn't think properly like this. His hands were shaking from the mix of adrenaline and fear.  
  
John pulled his hands away from the table and clenched them into fists on his lap, and reigned the fear in, forcing himself to calm down and think. He shoved the feelings aside to deal with later. Right now, he just needed to think.  
  
He had his suspicions, of course, the moment he saw the update. There was only one person he could think of that could have (and _had_ ) hacked his account, and he’d disappeared after fleeing out of Kitty Riley's window, vanished into thin air. Wasn't that convenient.  
  
He wondered where _Jim Moriarty_ disappeared to. Why wasn’t he wreaking havoc on society with his favourite playmate out of the picture?  
  
He must be why Sherlock was hiding, but why pretend to be dead? Why jump off a building? Sherlock could have stayed in London and asked for Mycroft's help and for protection, even if the detective would rather chew his arm off than to ask his brother for anything, and if that wasn't what Sherlock did, there must be more to it.  
  
But for the life of him, John couldn't figure it out.  
  
It hit him a few minutes later, like a blow to the head. Jim Moriarty was alive. He was the one who posted the twisted version of a nursery rhyme on his blog, ruining yet another childhood memento for him. First, fairy tales, and now this.  
  
 _Jim Moriarty was alive._ The man who wrapped him in semtex almost lovingly, like a Christmas present, to hand over to Sherlock Holmes. The man who had murdered innocent people, almost killed three _children_ , and blew up an elderly woman for his sick game. And the psycho might be alive, while John's best friend hid for god-knows-why and couldn't even talk to John and now _…_.  
  
John jolted at the sound of something shattering and realised that he'd thrown his coffee mug against the wall. John watched the dark liquid stain his walls like blood against the pavement, the mug fractured  like Sherlock's skull, except his skull hadn’t really been fractured, because he wasn’t dead.  
  
He curled his fingers into a fist, the nails biting into the skin of his palms, and slowly let his anger recede into the faint buzz of adrenaline. He didn't need blind emotions. He needed to channel it elsewhere.  
  
It felt a bit reminiscent of medical school really, up at weird hours, pondering questions of how's and why's, especially when it comes to a different case and patient. It also reminded him of the war, being awake at an ungodly hour of the night, watching patients sleep peacefully as he stood guard outside, just wondering when the enemy would come and finish the job by staging an ambush and tossing a live grenade inside -  
  
John passed a hand over his eyes, and sighed. It felt too much like being trapped in a trench without knowing who the enemy was, let alone where they were. There wasn't even anyone to fight at the moment, and he just felt so _helpless_.  
  
He couldn't even be sure it was Moriarty. Was it? That was the most logical choice. Who else could have done it?  
  
What was that Sherlock always said? _I need more data. I cannot make bricks without clay._  
  
His mobile rang, and John didn't even read the screen before he answered.  
  
"What do you have?"  
  
"I'm sorry Mr Dent, this man's just too good." John looked at his phone for a moment. It didn't sound like Steve - must be his associate. "I'm trying to look for our errant blogger's IP address, but he had it pinged and bounced over a lot of servers ranging from China to Zimbabwe and looped it around twice, masking his location neatly."  
  
John blinked as he tried to process the information. "Sorry, again please?"  
  
"You know how walking around in circles and stomping all over your footprints would confuse someone on where you've started and where you've ended? It's like that. Only more complicated," the man- Haversham, was it? - explained apologetically. "I'm sorry Mr Dent, I cannot help you at this moment."  
  
John clicked off his phone, shutting it off completely, and took deep breaths. He hadn't really expected anything to come of that, but it was worth trying regardless. Besides, it proved what he thought, _what he was afraid of._ Aside from Mycroft, there was only one person associated with Sherlock who could do this and he seriously doubted Mycroft would have bothered parodying a nursery rhyme.  
  
Jim Moriarty was still alive.  
  
\-----  
  
 _Monday, 17 September_  
  
It had been more than a month since John had enacted his plan and died, and his investigation was going nowhere. He’d started looking for leads almost immediately after he’d faked his death and donned his Arthur Dent persona. He spent most of his time theorising, plotting, and investigating - attacking his ‘case’ with such fervor that would rival Sherlock’s enthusiasm over a grisly murder case.  
  
After a few days without any leads, John was getting a bit antsy, but he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It was _Sherlock_ he was tracking, and he wasn’t a bloodhound, nor was he Sherlock Holmes,  so John held on, hoping for some useful information to come his way. It was harder to get information than people usually thought- especially if you’re supposed to be dead and have to discard all the informants that might put you at too much risk of being found out. Besides, realistically, it was going to take longer than hours or days to get the correct lead. He just had to wait.  
  
After two weeks or so, John was ready to shoot someone just to get a scrap of information. Henry’s money was put to some use especially,  greasing some palms to give up some sort of lead. John owed the man so much already - there were days when he felt like he was taking too much of an advantage of Henry’s aid, but Henry insisted that he was the least he could do for Sherlock and John because of their help in turning his whole life around. Henry would insist with a smile that it was nice to have friends around the house, even if some of them were supposed to be dead. “I keep seeing dead people, Doctor Watson. People will start saying I’m crazy,” he had joked over supper.  
  
John had actually ended up with about ten or twenty conspiracy theories from different informants regarding Sherlock's death. It had blown up on the internet, spreading across different blogging platforms and had actually spawned discussion boards of all kinds. Some of the people he had talked to on the streets claimed that they had seen Sherlock somewhere at some point, reminiscent of the rumoured Elvis sightings after the celebrity had passed away.  
  
John’s favourite theory was that Sherlock was an alien who had to return to his home planet, which would explain why his best friend was so bloody eccentric. The claim that he was really The Doctor who’d just regenerated was not as much fun.  
  
Those completely thrown aside, he wasn't getting anywhere, even when Henry offered to help by talking to people. John had been utilising every avenue he could think of, and that was bound to go somewhere. Eventually.  
  
He couldn't even unlock the apps and files on the Sherlock's phone, and with his current luck, there would be some major clue on it, a message for John even. Frankly, that thought was driving him spare more than anything else.  
  
He sighed. He needed outside help, which John didn’t look forward to asking for. He would very much prefer to do it on his own, albeit with Henry’s help, but that was different. However, it seemed like he had no choice. He needed to bring someone else in.  
  
John grabbed his ‘John’ mobile dialled a number that he was becoming all too familiar with. "Mr Tabernacle?"  
  
"Mr Dent, good to hear from you. It's Lawson now. Thomas Lawson. " He paused and John could hear the faint click of a door. "What can I do for you, John?"  
  
 _Thomas Lawson._ The man seemed to discard names as easily as he chose his suits. But that was part of the lesson he was given, John remembered - if an identity gets compromised, you have to burn it. That was why Steve - no, no, _Thomas_ , Thomas - created different identities for him to use. "I need your help,” he said, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Would you mind coming over for a sleepover?"  
  
"A sleepover, John? Are we going to paint our nails and talk about boys?" The man answered wryly on the other end of the phone.  
  
John chuckled a bit, then sobered straightaway. "How about a few pages of maps, news reports, and photographs instead?” He pressed his lips together, and made up his mind. John needed the help desperately. “I'm looking for someone, and I'm running out of options."  
  
"You're looking for Sherlock, aren't you?” There was a sort of pleased certainty that he thought he heard in Thomas’s voice.  John shook his head and massaged his brow. He had heard too much of this sort of tone from Sherlock, though Sherlock’s was a lot more arrogant.  
  
John thought for a moment. This wasn’t something that he wanted to talk about on the phone, and even if there was no reason for anyone to bug his burner, it still didn’t feel secure in any way. "I would rather talk about this in person, Mr Lawson."  
  
"All right. Where should I show up?"  
  
“The Cross Keys Pub, Grimpon, in Dartmoor. I’ll...” He thought a moment, aware that the pub owners might recognise him, especially after what happened with the ‘hound’. “...have someone meet you there tomorrow.”  
  
Thomas said his affirmative, and added, “If you're looking for who I think you are, you'll need more than my help. I'm good, but I know someone who can help speed things up. Mind if I bring a friend along?"  
  
He hesitated. John felt like he was already risking too much pulling Thomas into this, but if it would help....  
  
“Can he be trusted?” he asked before he could even think about it.  
  
"Oh, Connally? Of course. You've met him before," Thomas reassured.  
  
"Good. Let's talk it over when you arrive." John ended the call, and exhaled slowly.  
  
He could only hope he was doing the right thing.  
  
\-----

  
 _Tuesday, 18 September_  
  
John had asked Henry if he wouldn’t mind fetching Thomas and Connally from the pub today, giving the reason that he couldn’t show his face there as the locals might recognise him. Henry agreed, telling John that he was heading there to pick up something anyway. “How do I recognise him?”  
  
“If it were up to him and Sherlock, everyone would be dressed by Savile Row.” John had said with a smile. “You won’t miss him. In any case, I’ll tell Thomas what you look like so he won’t miss you.”  
  
Henry found Thomas easily. The man was wearing an expensive looking brown suit inapt for the small town of Grimpen. His friend tagged along behind them, blending into the surroundings easily enough that Henry later admitted to John that he almost didn’t see the man. He took them back at the house to meet John, who had greeted the two with cups of coffee and a gesture to sit in the den. The two men sat while John stood in front of them, too edgy to sit down. He covered it by standing At Ease in familiar military parade.  
  
"You were right," John said, after sipping from his mug.  
  
"So the super sleuth _is_ alive then?" Connally spoke up, an almost gleeful grin on his face. Thomas and Connally exchanged knowing looks.  
  
"That's the working hypothesis, yeah. I haven't..." John sighed, and looked at them almost helplessly. He reigned the expression back in as quickly as he accidentally let it slip. "....have no proof yet."  
  
"And you don't know how to get it. I'm wondering, why go through with faking your death? Doesn't this make it impossible for him to contact you?" Thomas asked. The man was straight to the point, knowing instantly which questions were the ones to ask, John realised. It made him wonder who Thomas Lawson actually was. It sounded like the he had experience in investigating similar things already.  
  
John nodded. His hand clenched and unclenched behind him as he stood, face smoothed so as to not give any of his feelings away. Thomas’s question had rolled around in his head for days, and it had taken him an entire day to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing, that his reasoning was sound. “There must be a reason why he had not contacted me. People, dangerous people, might be after him, and John Watson looking for Sherlock Holmes might have made them suspicious.” He breathed, grimacing a little. Days like this made him feel like he would always be that one constant with Sherlock Holmes, especially with the realisation that anyone after Sherlock would be after John as well. He said so. “And I don't want anyone caught in the crossfire."  
  
"So you don't know why he jumped?" Thomas asked, curiosity tinging his voice. John was beginning to feel like he was in one of those interview rooms at the Yard, but he answered anyway.  
  
"Still at a loss." John answered, shifting his stance to a Relax. His shoulders slumped a little at the reminder. "I assume it was necessary but - I’d hoped he trusted me enough to tell me he's not dead. If he really isn't."  
  
John had almost forgotten that Connally was even there until the man spoke up again. He seemed to be genuinely good at hiding in plain sight. "Maybe someone was forcing him to do it,” Connally pointed out. “Do you have any of his things? Oh, his phone. Maybe even his computer?"  
  
"I have his mobile. It was found on the rooftop where he tossed it aside, notice the screen’s cracked right there," John said and gingerly handed it over. "I've examined it. There's this folder that simply won't open, no matter what sort of searching on Google I do, it seems to just be protected or locked."  
  
"May I?" Connally took the phone, handling it with great care and respect. He turned it around in his hands, looking over the exterior with interest before finally tapping around on the screen. "Oh, our Mr Holmes know some friends in high places, doesn't he? He used a classified app - well, classified for the rest of the unknowing public - to encrypt our treasure trove of files right here. This is relatively easy, if you have the right tools and know exactly what to input. I wouldn't be surprised if he put in a cipher only someone who knows him would know." Connally did some sort of motion on the screen with his fingers, and nodded with satisfaction as the mobile blinked in response. "This should take me 6 hours, maybe a day, tops."  
  
John inhaled sharply. Whatever that classified app was hiding had to be important, and it was a huge step to be able to get into the phone. Sherlock didn't do things without a reason, he was- is- too analytical. "Right, that'd be great if you could get into it. What you said before, about someone forcing him to…to jump. I don't know what or who could have forced Sherlock Holmes to do anything, Lord knows I tried to get him to do things."  
  
Thomas appeared to think for a moment, and a slow smile spread across his face. "I remember this ca- job, this job that I had to do once. It involved blackmail, but knowing Mr Holmes, it's not easy to blackmail him, is it?" He turned to John. "If anyone was going to blackmail Sherlock, how do you think they'd go about it?"  
  
John couldn't help it. He laughed at the thought of anyone being able to blackmail Sherlock. Bollocks. No one can blackmail Sherlock. He couldn’t even coerce the man with threats of burning his favourite coat and replacing all of his suits with jumpers just to get the man to eat. "Sherlock doesn't care what people think or say about him. He cared about solving the puzzle. At least, that's what he wanted everyone to believe. That he was some unfeeling automaton."  
  
"But what do _you_ think, John Watson? The way I see it, you are in the best position to find Sherlock Holmes. You seem to know him better than he knows himself."  
  
"Sherlock is my best friend, and he is amazing. Quite extraordinary. The way he sees all the little things and then connects them to bigger picture.... Of course, when he did it, he made it sound like everything was so obvious. He took care of the local homeless, called them his homeless network and said that giving them money was an investment. They helped out a lot on case…s.” John slowed his stream of thought, and swore softly under his breath. “Why didn't I think to check with them before? But I can't go asking around. They know who I am. Good job, Watson.  Way to think things through."  
  
"We'll take care of that. Don't worry about it," Thomas assured. He smiled, mostly to himself, as he explained. "I think he cares more than he mostly lets on. The thing of it is, John, is that in this line of work, you cannot afford having any ties, letting anyone know you, because they could be very easily used against you. Practically impossible to do, however. We’re all, after all, still human." John nodded in agreement. Sherlock had told him that caring wasn’t an advantage, but John knew that Sherlock did anyway. The detective wasn’t as sociopathic as he sometimes wished he could be.  
  
Thomas continued, "The way I see it, the same goes for Sherlock, and maybe this time, the stakes are higher. From what I've read in your blog, he cares more about others than himself." He leaned forward, with a slight, knowing smile on his lips. "So, doctor - who would Sherlock Holmes die for?"  
  
John paused, and shook his head slightly. "Sherlock wouldn't do that," he said skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together. Sherlock had been prepared to die at the pool to take Moriarty with him, but that was different. They had both agreed, with a silent conversation, that it was better to take Moriarty with them rather than die and let the madman out into the world. That was different. Sherlock wouldn’t do that. He went into a loose version of Attention, and slowly sank down on a couch. All of a sudden, John felt knackered. "It's getting late and there's no use talking about it until we know what's in that file. Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lawson."  
  
\-----

  
 _Wednesday, 19 September_  
  
John stared at the iPhone sitting innocently in the middle of Henry’s living room table as the clock ticked past three am. He'd been woken by Connally and Thomas as soon as the security on the folder had been cracked. He’d retreated to his room, needing a bit of a breather. Thomas’s questions had made him feel years older, emotions kicked around, caught, and tackled like a rugby match. He’d been reading a few medical journals to ease his mind, and didn’t even notice that he’d drifted off until Henry had knocked on his door.  
  
Any moment now, he could press play on the audio file and maybe, just maybe, have a clue for finding Sherlock. John wasn't sure why he was hesitating. Perhaps it was because this was the only thing he had to go on, this one file…he didn't know what he'd do if it was just a pocket recording, meaningless static. He glanced from the phone to Henry sitting across from him, then to Thomas and Connally, who were standing nearby. They were waiting for him to play it. He took a deep breath and touched the screen, shoulders stiffening at the Irish brogue that poured from the speaker. Moriarty.  
  
So he'd been right. Moriarty _had_ hacked into his blog, was the reason that Sherlock was "dead." It was just another part of their game. And John had been taken along for the ride, hadn't he. Sherlock was asking about the robberies, but why? Sherlock should have been able to figure it out, unless….  
  
This was a confession. Moriarty was confessing to everything, egomaniac that he is. Brilliant. Sherlock had managed to fool the psychopath into revealing his plan. John had seen Sherlock wear personalities like masks to get answers from witnesses and suspects alike, and here he was, playing ordinary. A master of disguise without the costumes, playing with even the worst of criminal masterminds. How could they all say that Sherlock Holmes was a bloody _fake_?  
  
Three high-pitched protests drew John's attention back to the recording. What _was_ that? Did Sherlock hang Moriarty over the ledge? He should have let go, if that was what those noises were about.  
  
 _"Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."_  
  
Wait - what…what did this mean?  
  
 _"John."_  
 _"Not just John. Everyone."_  
 _"Mrs Hudson."_  
 _"Everyone."_  
 _"Lestrade."_  
 _"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."_  
  
Jesus. We were leverage, little pieces in the game of chess played by two mad men, engaging in a silent war on a rooftop.  
  
The damage it caused bled into every crack of the pavement, seeping into London’s heart and rattling the city’s foundations. John had been watching on the sidelines, keeping his ears open for any news of Sherlock, and he had noticed criminal organisations crumbling all around the country, even the world. Assassinations, gang wars, silent killings: it crumbled everywhere, caused by two men moving the pieces, with hidden players waiting to make their move...  
  
 _Bang._  
  
The recording ended there, but John knew what happened next. Their last conversation, Sherlock falling down. The room was silent, no one daring to breathe, not even John, _especially_ John.  
  
He’d been so sure that Moriarty was alive, that Sherlock was after him, but now he wasn’t certain. It’d be insane to think that two people faked their deaths at the same time, wouldn’t it?  Anderson hadn’t mentioned there being a body on the roof but Moriarty’s team would have taken care of it, most likely.  
  
God, he’d been looking for answers, not more questions. If Moriarty really was dead, who hacked into his blog and left that rhyme? Why was Sherlock still hiding after almost two months?  
  
“Might it be possible that he’s going after the gunmen?”  
  
John whipped around to look at Connally in surprise. He hadn’t realised he’d been speaking aloud.  
  
The man in the specs continued talking. “To make sure of course, that you don’t die.” Connally paused. “He might have even gone after the whole web, just to make sure.”  
  
There was a moment of silence, while everyone digested the current information.  
  
“Mrs Hudson, Greg, and me.” John repeated. “One gunman for each of us.”  
  
Mrs Hudson. Did she have a sniper, waiting outside to shoot her? No, no. John had seen the flat, assessed it like he’d learned to do in the army. The trajectory wouldn’t work, and even with a good spotter, it was far too intricate to do. He supposed that a good enough sniper might’ve done it, but there were only a few men that John knew who would be successful. It was easier, he decided, to just enter the flat and do a hit from the inside.  
  
“Is it possible that the Inspector’s would-be-assassin was someone already working in the Yard?” Henry piped up. “I mean, it’s not easy to kill someone from the police right, and even if, maybe, someone could do a drive-by like on the telly....”  
  
“It’s plausible. It’s one of the few ways anyone would be able to kill someone efficiently in that sort of position,” Thomas answered Henry. He turned to John to continue, “I’m not sure what happened, John, and I will not ask you to rehash that day but, was there anyone suspicious, anyone you didn’t know, hanging around your landlady then?”  
  
“The repairman,” John said breathlessly. He remembered that Mrs Hudson was having brackets installed underneath the landing, and it was plausible that the man was in on it. It was rather convenient, too, John realised, that the man had arrived a day after Mrs Hudson had called him in due to excuses about scheduling. What a coincidence.  
  
Thomas gestured at the phone. “We could start with them, see what they know about Jim Moriarty’s death, and the situation of the organisation he’s left behind.”  
  
John thought for a moment. “It’s important that we don’t mention that we think Sherlock’s alive. He’s hiding for a reason, and calling attention to him might be dangerous.” He glanced at everyone. “Well, gentlemen, it seems like we have a bit of planning to do, then.”  
  
\-----  
  
It had only sunk in, after Connally had listed down the names and pinned the cardboard to the bedroom wall.  
  
Sherlock had died for him. For them. For people he cared about, for people he _loved_. Not a machine. Had a heart. Sentiment. Caring didn’t help.  
  
He’d stumbled back onto the bed, falling onto the mattress with a slight plop. He could barely hear everyone else’s voices over the rush in his ears, as he forced himself to put his head between his knees to stop the world from spinning for a minute.  
  
John knew, John had known, that he was important to Sherlock, but he never considered that the man would actually go beyond the call of duty of friendship and jump off a ledge for him. It was almost well beyond the camaraderie that he’d seen in the army. John would gladly take a bullet for anyone, but happily pulling a trigger on himself to save a bloke wasn’t in the cards.  
  
And that was exactly what Sherlock did for him - for them, he corrected, and it floored him completely. And almost literally, if Henry hadn’t wrestled him to collapse backwards on the bed.  
  
He knew he’d _known_ Sherlock Holmes, but he didn’t think he’d get to see the man’s heart, his bleeding, fragile heart, wrapped in all the pretense of sociopathy and callous machinery. Even if, technically, Sherlock didn’t die... saying it meant a lot was an understatement.  
  
With all honesty, John would definitely say that he had been angry when Sherlock died, angry when he found out that Sherlock was alive. The man had hid it from him, making him go through all that pain, that empty knowledge that his best friend was never coming back.... But knowing that Sherlock did it for him? For Mrs Hudson, for Lestrade? Sherlock was more than forgiven. He knew that Sherlock would try to brush it off as John being sentimental, or insist that it was the most logical choice at the time, but he had his proof and no one would ever convince him otherwise.  
  
John couldn’t wait to find Sherlock. He needed to give the man a slap on the back of the head, and the biggest hug he could manage. He needed to _thank_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this is supposed to be longer, as Chapter 5, but we decided to break chapter 5 into 3 parts. Er, seems like we did the right thing, or else you guys would’ve waited three months for a 15k-word-chapter o_o’ Thanks for reading; see you in the next chapter!
> 
> You can skip the next chapter, as that is our April Fool's chapter, and head on to the next proper one, if you wish. Thank you! (but we suggest you read that chapter as well. It's a nice bit of silliness!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, we would like to apologise for the very long wait. We are both suffering from bits of life-problems. We know we've made promises, and seriously, we're doing the best we've can. Thank you for your patience guys!

_Tuesday, 9 October_

 

It had taken two weeks of fruitless searching before John decided to just call Mrs Hudson and ask if she knew how to contact the handyman. He spent an additional week trying to think of a decent reason to bring the man up in a conversation. He didn't believe "that man who installed the brackets under the landing was a hired gun there to shoot you if Sherlock didn't jump" would put his former landlady at ease.

 

John was relieved when the familiar voice of Mrs Hudson answered the phone. God, what if something had happened to her? What if it she wasn’t at Baker Street anymore? He really should check on the people he loved more. He wanted to be as updated as possible, to see how he could help, even from beyond the grave.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Mrs Hudson? It's me. Promised I'd call, yeah?"

 

There was a bit of shuffling on the other side of the phone. It sounded like Mrs Hudson had pulled up a chair. "John! Dear, it's very nice to hear from you! It's been months since I last saw you dear. I hope you weren't too disturbed by the commotion your death had brought on."

 

John cleared his throat, remembering what his death had done to his sister and Greg. All the things they said. Connally had recorded everything, mentioning the futility of death and the beauty of other people’s suffering for loved ones. John had listened out of curiosity...and he regretted every moment of it.

 

"I'm fine, just fine, Mrs H. You're doing okay, I hope?"

 

"The hip's been playing up a bit. The old flat's getting a bit too drafty without you boys around. And you, John?"

 

"Sorry to hear about your hip. Make sure you rest it, doctor's orders. I'd actually called to ask if you knew how to contact that man who installed the brackets under the first landing? Harry's been looking for a good contractor and I promised I'd help find one."

 

"Oh, he did a fine job, very nice work. The brackets look lovely." John listened to a bit of a shuffling on the other side, and the turning of pages. Sherlock had pointed out Mrs Hudson’s notebook once, filled with bits of important information that she didn’t want to forget. It was old and worn, with the cover almost falling away. John wanted to replace it, but Sherlock insisted that Mrs Hudson would prefer her current notepad until it ran out. John had never seen it run out, but he hoped he could buy Mrs Hudson the next one if he comes back, for putting her through so much.

 

"I'll send you the number in a bit. One of Mrs Turner's taught me how to text properly. So kind of him, really. I'm happy you're still in contact with your sister! How is she? She seemed very heartbroken during the funeral."

 

"Oh, Harry's fine. She always did love to be dramatic," he said with frown, regretful about needing to lie to his former landlady. It was better this way though. The less she knew, the safer she was. "That'd be great, ta. Do you happen to remember his name?"

 

\-------

_Thursday, 11 October_

 

He’d read up on his medical jargon, watched some episodes of ER, House and Grey’s Anatomy, rolled his sleeves up, and hoped to god that no one would ask for his help anywhere. It had been a while since Thomas pretended he was a doctor in a hospital, and even then, it never came easy for him. He knew he’d be unable to help people if he was asked to assist, and he would rather not accidentally kill anybody. For all of his many skills, surgery has never been and never will be among them.

 

When they had decided to send him in to talk to one Dr. Molly Hooper, Thomas thought it would be one of his more difficult cons. Surely a doctor wouldn't be easily reeled in by just his charm, and he was prepared to pull out all the stops.

 

Then he saw Molly. After watching her discreetly, he could tell that she seemed more likely to go for someone who would simply  _see_  her. Keeping that in mind and seeing her walking toward him,  he began moving as well and bumped into the pretty doctor.

 

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to - " he began and stooped down, collecting all the paperwork Molly had dropped. "Let me help you, I'm sorry, doctor...?"

 

"Oh! Hooper - er, Molly," she said, sounding surprised. Thomas gave her a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm so sorry, but I don't seem to remember your name. I try to know who everyone is since I do the post-mortems. Oh God, sorry. That was weird, wasn't it?"

 

"Well, I'm new - just flew in from across the pond, so I understand. Dr Carter, Ross Carter. It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper." Thomas handed over the files, fingers ghosting over Molly’s hand. "I'm sorry for bumping into you like this, I'm so clumsy sometimes."

 

He laughed, and rocked back on his heels a little, and studied her for a bit. "Look, let me make it up to you, doctor. How about I take you out for some coffee?"

 

Molly blushed. "Oh, no. I couldn't. Thank you though."

 

Thomas blinked at her in genuine confusion, and mixed in a little bit of pretend hurt. "Really? Was I really that bad?" He smiled apologetically. "I can live with that."

 

"Oh, no! You're not bad at all. I just didn't think someone like you would be interested in someone like me,” she rambled. Her eyes darted everywhere except Thomas’s, and Thomas brushed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

 

“You’re beautiful, you seem nice, and you’re a doctor. Any one would be crazy not to want to go out with you,” Thomas said, flashing her another charming smile. “But hey, if you’re off the market, that’s fine. Thanks for letting me down easy. Here, let me help.” He took the pile of documents from Molly before she could protest, and followed her down back to her office, making small talk about the hospital.

 

He made sure to walk halfway out the door before turning around to ask again. “Are you sure that I really can’t take you out for coffee?”

 

“I... yes, I'd like to have coffee. With you. That... that would be lovely, actually.”

 

"I’ll pick you up when your shift ends?"

 

Molly glanced down at her watch, cheeks flushing a light pink. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, it... in five hours, it ends in five hours.”

 

Thomas grinned. "Then I'll see you in five hours.”

 

\------

 

Thomas paused by the door and knocked. It was a good hour before Molly said she would be ready, and he thought that there was a good chance that he would be able to search for Molly’s phone then.

 

"Come in!" came a voice from inside the mortuary. Thomas entered, his eyes roaming everywhere, looking at the different instruments and the row of cabinets. "Doctor Hooper?" he called out.

 

His eyes rested on the body on the table, only a small sheet covering the man's privates. Everything else was displayed inside out. Thomas spun toward the opposite direction, feeling sick. He swallowed to get his stomach back under control before he accidentally threw up his lunch. "You, are definitely busy right now."

 

Not feeling like he was going to puke anymore, he turned back to see Molly standing at a smaller table, watching him with a bemused look.

 

"Oh! Doctor Carter. Am I late?" Molly asked. Her hands were covered in gloves, which were tinted red from dissecting the man’s heart on the table.

 

Thomas took a steady breath, remembering that he was supposed to be a doctor and this was not supposed to be the first time he's seen a cadaver. It wasn't, but he never enjoyed seeing dead people. Especially not with their internal organs everywhere. There was a reason he shied away from guns. "No...no, I'm just early. What happened to him?"

 

"Died on the table. The family asked for an autopsy and I don’t blame them. He was just having his gallbladder out. Shame, really,” Molly answered, glancing back at the body resting on the table. "Do you mind waiting a bit? I’m just finishing up." She frowned. “Are you alright? You’re looking a bit green.”

 

"No, I’m fine," he murmured, taking care to  _not_  look at the body again. He swallowed a second time, clenching his fists to keep his gag reflex under control. "Mind if I stay in your office?"

 

"That's fine. I’m almost done, really."

 

"Thanks," Thomas said. He quietly let himself into the office, scanning the small room. She had added a personal touch with flowers and small plushies peppering the stark white of the hospital walls in pinks and yellows. He shook his head, smiling at how the office felt so much like that pretty doctor currently sewing a man back together. Peeking through the door, he could see that Molly was facing away from him and began his search.  He quickly spotted her purse under the desk and fished her phone out. Thomas scrolled through the messages, taking note of the names as quickly as he could. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary but any of random people here might be Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn’t exactly strike Thomas as a master of deception though. It was more likely that the detective used various burner phones to contact her, so the number would be unknown.

 

Of course, Molly wasn’t an idiot, and she had obviously deleted all of the messages. He was almost proud of her for that.

 

But, Molly was still  _Molly_ , and from what he knew of her crush on the detective,  it was very possible that Sherlock had sent something  she thought was worth keeping. With that, Thomas opened her saved messages, immediately spotting an unknown number. He clicked open.

 

The message was obvious. It was definitely from Sherlock Holmes. Thomas  _had_  him. He grinned smugly for a moment before he heard the sink in the lab turn on. He was out of time.

 

He’d put the phone away before Molly was even done washing her hands. 

 

Molly appeared in the doorway, sans bloody gloves and white lab coat. “Alright, I’m all done,” she said, smiling shyly. 

 

Thomas had arranged himself comfortably in her chair, looking like he’d been that way for a while. He smiled and stood, gesturing to the door with his hands. "Great. Shall we go?"

 

Molly nodded and retrieved her purse from under the desk. He watched nervously as she pulled out her cellphone to check for messages. "There's a coffee shop nearby, on Fleet Place. We could um, walk?" Thomas released the breath he’d been holding as Molly slipped the phone back into her purse and grabbed a sweater from a coat hanger in the corner. 

 

"Sure. I'd love to see more of London, anyway." Thomas replied and pushed open the office door, letting Molly lead the way. 

 

They walked in almost awkward silence to the cafe until Thomas started up a conversation about the weather, with the sun shining through spatters of clouds, mentioning how different it was from home. Thomas started gesturing at random people, making up stories about how they move and talk and  _why_ , purposefully reminding Molly about Sherlock Holmes. It was a dirty trick, yes, but it was important. She had to think about Sherlock and not be on her guard about it. Thomas was quite good at guessing how and why people did what they did - he was an artist, after all, and artists have a way of seeing into people’s souls - and Molly had smiled at his stories.

 

They were sad smiles, with the corners of her mouth tucked up rather shyly, and none of them reached her eyes. Molly, in that split second, seemed like the sort of person you want to protect from the world.

 

Dammit Thomas, focus.

 

"So, how long have you been working at St. Bart's?” he asked almost out of the blue, to move the topic to something less Sherlock like and more Molly. Best not make her suspicious.

 

"Five years last May," she replied to him. There was a sort of startled look in her eyes, as if she was surprised at the sudden topic change. Like her mind had been elsewhere entirely.

 

Good, that was good. It made Thomas feel guilty to exploit her this way.

 

"So you like it there, then?"

 

"Yes, I do. The people are lovely. When I see them, I mean." Molly twirled a finger around the end of her hair, and it made her look less like the pathologist who does autopsies every day and more like a bashful, charming young woman out for a walk.

 

Thomas gave her a slightly puzzled look. "They don't like visiting you down there? I thought that your little cubbyhole with all the dead bodies was quite endearing. I love what you did to your office, honestly. It was cozy. It felt more like you, I suppose."

 

Molly stumbled mid-step when she turned to look at Thomas, her eyes widened in shock.  Thomas caught her by the arm, and gently pulled her upright before she could fall. Apparently it wasn’t an opinion that she heard every day because she was still staring at him like he was an alien. "You don't think it's odd that I work in the morgue?"

 

"The dead need someone to solve their puzzles, don't you think? Not everyone can do what you do."

 

Molly brightened. Finally, someone who understood her. Thomas wasn’t faking all of it. "That's why I decided to be a pathologist.”

 

"There's nothing odd about that. We all have our places in the world," Thomas said with another smile. He lost himself in his own memories, ones concerning tall buildings and heists. One way or another, his world revolved around them, and he knew he didn’t belong here. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Things were still too fresh, what he had left behind.

 

Sometimes, during jobs, one ran into things that needed to be resolved even if there was no time to do so. Thomas had perfected the ability of tucking them away until he had to deal with them.

 

"You looked sad, just now."

 

Of course she noticed. Perceptive. It was a bit unnerving.

 

"Hm?" Thomas hummed questioningly. "What do you mean?"

 

Molly met his gaze. There wasn’t any pity in her brown eyes, only a sad brush of understanding. "When you said that bit about having our places in the world, you looked sad."

 

Thomas shrugged. "I still have to find my own niche. It's a process. Know anyone like that?"

 

Molly looked away. "I do...did. They died recently. Sorry, that's not something one talks about while getting coffee, is it?"

 

"No, it's fine. We could try for small talk, but that's…" Thomas laughed a little. "That's boring, isn't it?"

 

"Do you think so? My er, my friend, he thought a lot of things were boring." She laughed softly. It crept into her eyes a bit this time. Thomas decided it looked good on her.

 

"Your friend's smart." They finally reached the café, and Thomas pulled out a chair for Molly before sitting down himself. "We could try it. 'Hello, Molly, nice weather we're having.'" He changed his voice a little into a faux, smaller one. It was cheesy, he knew, but it made Molly’s eyes light up even more. "'Why yes, Ross, it is, quite.' 'Do you like your coffee?' 'Yes, yes I do. How about you?' 'I am enjoying it, thank you.'"

 

He laughed a little more. "It's just not interesting." He gave a quick grin before transitioning to a more somber expression. "I'm sorry about your friend. Would you like to talk about it?

 

Molly’s smile dimmed a little. "Oh, not really. Sorry. It's just...he meant a lot to me, still does. I knew him for most of the time I worked at Bart's."

 

"I know what you mean. It's not easy being left behind, I know." Thomas breathed in. As he had told John, an ounce of truth always goes a long way. "You know why I'm here, in London?" He looked around the café and dropped his façade a bit.  "I was trying to get away from something that I did back in America, but now…. Now I don't think leaving was worth it. Maybe, just maybe, if I’d stuck it out… I wouldn't have hurt the people I cared about."

 

"Can't you go back? It's not too late to apologize. I'm sure they'd forgive you." Her voice was soft and caring. It struck a chord in him, and he clenched his fist slightly to pull it back together. Molly thought she was invisible and she became so. She thought she was unimportant and so Moriarty saw her as unnecessary in his plans. Maybe that was why Sherlock Holmes chose her to help in his disappearing act. This invisibility placed her in the best position to perceive things as they were.

 

"I can't. It's complicated," Thomas said, shaking his head. "I wish I could.” He avoided eye contact, giving the impression that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Let me get the drinks, then we could talk more.” He stood up smoothly, smiling when Molly told him her order.

 

He came back a few minutes later with steaming mugs and a couple of pastries. Taking a bite of a cherry danish, he tried to resume the conversation. “Anyway, we were talking about your friend."

 

Molly gave a short nod, although she seemed like she didn’t hear him. She looked thoughtful. "You're still alive, it can't be that complicated,” she said almost to herself, but loud enough that Thomas could still hear. Molly looked up. “Couldn't you at least phone them?” She blushed when she realized that Thomas had asked to change the subject. “Er, sorry, I shouldn't pry."

 

Thomas barely kept from snickering. She was still thinking about his predicament. It was endearing and refreshing to have people around him care again. "No, no it's fine.” He was running from a whole lot of things, from the things he did, in both the distant and the recent past. He knew he shouldn't have left, but going back now would be suicide. “Sometimes, I think it's better if they think I'm dead. Then I wouldn't have to drag them into my mess." He looked at Molly, sincere appreciation on his face ."But thank you, though. If it really is that easy, I will."

 

Molly placed a hand on Thomas’s, almost thoughtlessly. "I hope, for your sake, that you will be able to tell them someday. I have a friend who doesn't have the chance to do that anymore. They refuse to talk about it. It's sad," she said, staring at the table. When she realized where her hand was, Molly pulled it back like she’d burned it.

 

“Yes, I hope so too." Thomas said faintly. He reached out and placed a hand on her’s, to reassure her that it was alright to talk. “What happened? If I can ask, that is."

 

Molly hesitated. "He committed suicide. It was rather sudden," she admitted, sipping her coffee.

 

"That's really awful. I'm sorry." Thomas said. He squeezed her hand softly, encouraging her to continue, and hoped that his open demeanor would encourage her to share more. If he pried too much, it would become too obvious and Molly would clam up.

 

He wasn’t completely heartless. Thomas knew Molly needed this. Even though it wasn’t part of the plan, why not help her with this? It’s the least he can do, aside from the coffee, for conning information out of her.

 

Molly nodded. "He uh, he must have felt like he was alone. There was this case, he was a doctor too, and he was being called a fraud. His name was ruined and he…he shot himself. I wish he had talked to me."

 

"I'm sorry, I really am." Thomas sighed. "Maybe - you know, maybe I should have told them back home..." home, he thought wryly, he still thought of what he’d left as home, "...and maybe I could have prevented a lot of things from happening. I've lost their trust, and I don't think I could go back." He looked away for effect, squeezed Molly's hand again, and let go. He took a sip from his mug, frowning at the cooling temperature.

 

"My friend, the one who is alive, he hasn't even been to the cemetery. At least, I don't think he has. He's started travelling a lot."

 

There you go. That was what he wanted to hear. He encouraged the topic with a nod. "I've done a bit of travelling as well. It's - when you want to forget…." Thomas shook his head. "You want to keep moving. Away. Further." Thomas laughed at the similarities between his situation and Sherlock Holmes. "It's unhealthy."

 

Molly nodded. She looked more relaxed, as if she was happy that she finally found someone to talk to. Someone who understood. "I'm worried about him. What he's been through...it's not easy. They were, best friends I think."

 

Thomas appeared to think for a moment. This was good, this was  _really_  good.

 

Too good.

 

It shouldn't make him feel this guilty.

 

"I left behind a - guess he was my best friend, too. Definitely was the one who pulled me out of some bad habits." He sipped again from his cup. "Feels nice to talk about this." He met Molly’s gaze over the table. "It isn't easy. It's… I say I don't get attached, I can't, with my type of work - I loved to go around and travel on missions, you see - but… it's still hard. Some days, I just want to go home."

 

Thank god Molly knew absolutely nothing about Thomas, or else this would be a pretty embarrassing spill, and he wouldn't hear the end of it from anyone in his circle.

 

This time Molly grabbed his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said.

 

"Thank you. I hope your friend can come home, too. Just to get him some closure."

 

"Feelings have never been Sher-ringford's strong suit." Molly abruptly lost all color to her face, and Thomas thought she was going to faint.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyebrows knitted in concern. He held a hand to her to steady her, but she flinched away.

 

Molly glanced at her watch quickly. Suddenly, she looked very eager to leave, and Thomas wasn’t going to prolong her agony. It must have been painful to feel like she almost betrayed Sherlock Holmes to a relative stranger. He hoped she doesn’t dwell on it too much. "I’m fine, I’m fine, but I have to go - late for something, I just realised.. Thanks for the coffee. It was lovely." She stood up a bit shakily.

 

"Will I see you at work tomorrow?" Thomas stood up as well. He felt like he needed to make it up to Molly. The woman looked pale, too pale, but Thomas had what he needed.  He was sure that he had the confirmation John had wanted. The army doctor was going to be elated. Or pissed off.

 

Molly nodded faintly.

 

Thomas held out a hand. "Are you okay? Sorry if this whole thing upset you, it's not really the sort of topic you talk about during a first date." Thomas laughed a bit to ease Molly. "Let's do a proper one, tomorrow, maybe...?" He grinned and continued. "Although I'd need your number for that."

 

"Oh! Right, of course."  She grabbed a napkin and took a pen from her purse, writing down the number. "Thank you. I think talking about it helped a bit. I've got to run though. It was nice to meet you," she rattled off before dashing out the door.

 

Thomas gave a slight wave, and stuffed the napkin into his pocket. When he was sure Molly wasn’t going to turn back, he took out his phone, and dialed John. "Hey, Mr. Dent, great news. We've got your friend."

 

\-----

 

John was just about to take his lunch break when his "John" phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered as he clocked out, and Thomas’ smooth voice gave him the news.

 

_We’ve got your friend._

 

They had him, they  _actually_  had him, and he was  _right_. His hand shook, but his voice was steady. "Great timing. I'm just leaving for my lunch break. I'll meet you where we’ve talked about.”

 

"Will be there in ASAP."

 

John half-ran to Prezzo’s a restaurant halfway between the Starbuck’s he worked at Saint Bart’s.  He spotted Thomas immediately. "Thomas," John greeted, taking a seat. "You said we found him?"

 

"Mr 'Sherringford'. But that was Ms Hooper's slip of the tongue, so we aren't sure what alias he is using now. But, John..." Thomas broke into a huge grin. "He is  _definitely_  alive. I saw a text message from him, and Ms Hooper confirmed it."

 

"Don't use that name in public," he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening. No one appeared to be. John knew his name was fairly common, but he didn't want to attract any more unwanted attention like what happened on the bus.  "What did the text say?"

 

"No one can hear us, John. You're getting as bad as Connally," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. "It just assures us he's alive.”

 

That wasn’t what John asked. Thomas was dodging the question, and it was beginning to piss John off. He didn’t have time for Thomas’s games; the text might be relevant. Sherlock liked sending texts that had multiple meanings, and this might be one of them - but John wouldn’t know until he knew what the message was. "Tell me what the text said. It might have a clue or a lead…something that will let me know where he is."

 

"I'm not entirely sure that is a great idea," Thomas said quietly.

 

"I need to know what it said. Please."

 

The other man sighed in defeat. He took out his phone, and John watched him as he typed. Within a few seconds, John’s phone beeped, and he read the message.

 

Five words. Just five words and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

 

_I should have told him._

 

He closed his eyes, clenching the phone tightly. He couldn’t think about how much he’d hurt Sherlock,  _not now_. He couldn’t afford the distraction at the moment.

 

Thomas was silent. "I wish he had, too," he murmured. "I am sorry you had to find out this way. But he's alive. I don’t think Ms Hooper knows where he is, but he is alive, and he hasn't been by your grave yet."

 

John nodded, wondering if Sherlock would even bother to stop by his "grave". He'd probably find it boring, or the idea of it full of ridiculous sentiment. He glanced at his watch, noticing his hour was almost up. "Time for me to head back. Could you install some cameras to watch the gravesite tomorrow?"

 

"I'll get Connally to do it. I can't."

 

"Can't?"

 

"I have a date tomorrow." Thomas grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat who’d just caught a mouse. "Would you like me to set you up with one? I'd make it a double date, Arthur, but you can't tag along tomorrow, sorry."

 

"Ha, very funny. When did you manage to get a date between talking to Molly and….” It dawned on John, and he almost spat out his drink. John wasn’t sure whether to stare in awe or something else. The audacity of this man. “No. You're not serious. You asked her out after conning information out of her?"

 

"I didn’t con anything out of her. We had a coffee date, we talked.  I shared some things about me, and she shared some things about her. One of those things just happened to be about Mr Sherringford."

 

John shook his head, giving up. "All right, fine. Fine. Molly's had bad luck in the dating department, don't lead her on.” He knew he sounded like he was scolding, but really, even if he didn’t know Molly very well she did not deserve a terrible date. “She dated Moriarty for chrissakes."

 

Thomas grimaced. "Wow. I assume that didn't work out well." He looked at John, completely serious. "I am not leading Molly on. I happen to genuinely think she's nice, and why shouldn't I get to know her? Besides, it would be a great way to keep tabs on your friends, don't you think?"

 

"It's fine. It's all fine," John said, standing. He smiled. Sherlock was alive,  _definitely_  alive, and that...that was good. That was definitely good. "I'll contact you later. Ta."

 

\------

 

_Tuesday, 16 October_

 

He’d been cleaning his gun when the prepaid phone that shouldn’t even be on rang.

The phone had been from an old job, to kill this old lady if he receive a phone call while working at her home. He didn’t, so he just fixed the old woman’s place and left. The lady reminded him a bit of his Mаці- she gave him coffee and scones while he worked. She even sent him home with more pastries, along with the cash she owned. Job’s a job though - he would’ve shot her cleanly through the head if asked.

Jack waited for the ringing to stop, and checked the number. Only three people were supposed to know this number: Mr Moriarty, his new boss, and the woman he was supposed to kill.

The number flashing on his phone was unfamiliar.

Mr Moriarty always used different numbers but it couldn’t be him. The boss-man had vanished a few months ago. No one had heard or seen him since death of Mr Holmes. He was almost worried about money, but cash was still fed into his account every other week.

With Moriarty missing, the rest of his gang fought for power. His right hand took over officially, but others resisted. It was great job opportunity anyway, with the boss gone there was no-one pulling strings no more, and everyone was free to climb as they please. Jack didn’t give a shit about holding a good leadership position though - he just wanted to get in fine with whoever the new boss is going to be. They need new people in the ranks anyway; people had been dying left and right and no one had any fucking clue what was up. Didn’t matter. Everything was up for grabs now and Jack wanted a piece of the action. He had a chance. Moriarty would have moved him up after this special assignment. He was told it was important job, very secret, even if the murder of an old woman didn’t seem so special.

The phone rang again, and this time, Jack answered it. It wasn’t even supposed to be on, but Jack was hoping he could swap sim cards. He thought he’d give it a bit of juice to see if it still was working.

Obviously, it was.

“Hello?” some bloke on the other end asked. “Is this the number to that handyman, Mr Isaenko? Sorry, my friend happened to recommend you and I was hoping to get some brackets installed....”

“Not accepting jobs this week, sorry.” Maybe he was overthinking it, but it was odd that the man on the phone started talking about brackets and that was what he installed in that old woman’s house. The number wasn’t listed, so it couldn’t have been a coincidence. He must know the old lady. Maybe he should start fishing. “Your friend liked the job I did then?”

“Yes, well.” There was a slight cough on the other end, and the voice was suddenly crisp and commanding. “You _were_ recommended by a friend. Fancy a meet? I’m interested in what other things you’re able to do, beside shoot nails into the wall.”

“She still alive and kicking then?” Jack returned with a slight snigger. Fucking blighter on the other end thought he was so clever, playing with words like that. “Fine, fine, could be arranged I suppose. Could use a little more money - who wants it done?’

Might just be his imagination, but the man’s voice on the other end sounded colder than winter itself. “A friend of mine named Hector Dixon. Dixon, as he told me, needs a handyman for some very delicate repair work.”

Jack didn’t expect lady luck to give him a chance, but this was fucking _perfect._ Everyone wanted to bring Hector Dixon in - with the huge price on the man’s head, dead or alive, it was no wonder. The bloody ghost murdered different people in the network like some Анёлсмерці, an angel of death, drawing attention from Jack’s ‘friends’. If he could pull this off, not only would he be stinking rich, the new boss would definitely pay attention to him now.

And here he actually expected a miscall. He wasn’t sure what the man wanted, but it didn’t matter if Jack could just get him to tell where Dixon was. “What is it that you want, then?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Let’s meet somewhere public. How about a hardware store?”

“No. We do this, we do it my way, how I want it. I’m busy.”

“Done.”

He was pretty sure the man couldn’t match whatever Jack would get from his new boss, but the man didn’t know that. This might be the one job that’ll get him to the top. If he turned in this man, he might get a really good reward for it.

“Will keep in touch, text you the address and time - not gonna wait for you, so don’t be late.”

\------

The text John received from the gunman brought him to the abandoned EMD Cinemas in Walthamstow. The apparently industry standard “come alone and unarmed” was tacked on after the coordinates, making the message seem just a tiny bit cliche and annoying. John ignored it anyway and brought the Baretta along. He wasn’t mad- he wasn’t about to charge into a situation without being _ready_.

The assassin mentioned obliquely in one of his texts that he _might_ sell his information. John had thought it sounded too good to be true. The man must be loyal enough for Moriarty to trust him with Mrs Hudson that a bit of cash would not convince him to change sides quickly. Still, John had made sure his borrowed cashcard had sufficient money, so he could just dash to a cashpoint machine if it was ever needed.

He wasn’t about to carry a massive amount of cash anywhere; he wasn’t daft.

John had been doing as much research as he could on Jack Aranski, and with Thomas’s and Connally’s help, they’d found a small paragraph on him: a hired gun from Belarus, dependable and loyal, with probable connections to Moriarty. He tried to remember what the man looked like, but he simply wasn’t paying enough attention then. He'd only managed a glance of the bulky European, preoccupied with worries about Mrs Hudson, and then Sherlock. After seeing that their beloved landlady was all right, he'd bolted without a backward glance when he realised that Sherlock was in danger.

He clenched his fists. He had been too late, anyway. If he had arrived just five minutes earlier, it could have gone remarkably different. John might have been able to help Sherlock figure something out and he wouldn't have to hide behind various aliases. Neither would John.

He sighed inaudibly. This wasn't the time to beat himself up; he needed to focus. Focus. John slowly pushed the door to the balcony seating, wincing at it creaked loudly. The cinema was darker than he’d expected, with all of the lights turned off. A small lamp illuminated a spot on the balcony, playing shadows against the dark crimson colour of the seats. Aranski stood with his back to the railing, hands crossed in front of him, and he leaned back slightly, almost arrogantly. His stocky physique was silhouetted by the bit of light from his lamp. John swallowed, and strode forward. He turned his torch on and splayed it across the grand cinema, showing glimpses of its massive, elegant interior with all the fancy angles and designs that you’d never see in one of the newer places in the city. He centered it on Aranski, and saw that the man had what seemed to be a Colt .45 at ready.

John’s brain worked overtime, trying to figure out a way to get out of this alive. Aranski probably knew the place better than he did, considering he picked the meeting place, and the way he casually leaned back against the railing might be an indication that he was comfortable with his surroundings. The darkness would be an advantage for John if he needed to run away fast - but he wouldn’t be able to use his own torch. The small ray of light would be all that Aranski would need to find his target, but John didn’t like the idea of fumbling around in the dark.

He didn’t like how this looked, at all. He simply took comfort in his own gun’s reassuring weight in his back.

“I thought I’d kill you once you showed, but I need information. Sit. Please,” Aranski said and gestured to a seat in the front row with the pistol. John paused somewhere in the middle section of the balcony, certain that he could duck behind the partition if the shooting started. He held the other man’s gaze. Sitting _anywhere_ would be a bloody awful idea.

“I’ll stand by here, thanks.”

Aranski shrugged, splaying his hands a bit, looking unconcerned. "Hector Dixon is into a lot of trouble. Know him well, then?"

"It's really none of your business," John answered. He gritted his teeth. He was here for information on whatever’s left of Moriarty’s syndicate, since that might just tell John where Sherlock is. Aranski was being bloody obstinate, of course - John wasn’t even sure what to say at this point, and he was certain that he couldn’t just blurt out what he needed. This would need a little more finesse.

"You made it my business when you phoned me. Talk, or I shoot," he gestured with the Colt, pointing at in John’s general direction now.

"He's my contact." John raised his left hand in a placating gesture. His right twitched at the his side, ready to pull out the gun.  "I don’t want trouble, I just need information."

"Information? What sort would you need from me, eh?"

John clenched his right fist slightly. "I need work, and I heard you had connections. Somewhere my skills would be useful."

"Do you think I'm idiot? First you say information, then say work. Your ‘contact’,” Aranski gestured with his gun towards John, "has been busy killing my connections and you think I'm just going to hand out names to some no-one for free? What's in it for me?"

John twitched slightly. The way Aranski toyed with that gun was a bit too reckless for John’s taste, and he didn’t want to be accidentally shot. He breathed deeply. "I will pay you. All I need to know is...” He paused, considering what he just heard. Killing his _what?_ “Hang on, what do you mean killing all your contacts?"

"Ah, cash before answers.” Aranski seemed to pause, and John could just about make out a flash of teeth from afar. “Or…a trade. I answer you one question and you…you tell me where I find Mr Dixon. Fair, yes?"  

John bit his lip in thought. He wasn’t sure if the man was dealing in good faith, but it was the best lead he might get when it comes to the state of Moriarty’s organisation. He simply wasn’t _sure_ , though, what everyone wanted with _Hector Dixon_. What did he do? John hadn’t been _killing_ anyone- did that man just say he killed some of his contacts? "Fine. Answer my question first."

There was a sharp glint in the man’s eyes -trick of the light or otherwise, John wasn’t sure, and the man moved forward a step. "You first. You might lie if already you have answer."  The gun was steadily aimed at John’s shoulder and John knew that with just a tiny flinch of Aranski’s arm and trigger finger, the bullet would go through his heart.

"What do you want with Hector Dixon?” John breathed, almost inaudible if not for the almost complete silence in the old cinema. Their voices have been echoing throughout the large halls, and John’s whisper probably would have been heard up at the stage. He rapidly worked out the puzzle in his head, unsure what was going on - what did John _do_ that one of his aliases were sought after by Moriarty’s syndicate?

"I told you. He's been causing trouble, but I have a…use for him."

John blinked. "What sort of trouble?"

"I tire of this circle we talk in,” said the man with a flourish, like he was reciting from a script. “Tell me who is Hector Dixon or I kill you as well as Dixon."

"If I tell you who he is, will you tell me what he did to piss you off, then?"

Aranski relaxed minutely, and leaned forward. "Nothing personal, just business. He stuck his nose where it doesn't belong, causing trouble with all his kills." He straightened. “My Boss would be happy if I bring him back. Probably won’t even matter if he was dead or alive.”

John sighed to himself. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to reveal himself to the man, but it was a gamble that might pay off, if John could force Aranski to say something relevant. "You have me mistaken for someone else then, because I haven't killed anyone." He moved behind the barrier, just above some of the seats, ready to duck just to be safe.

Aranski gaped for a bit, and his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "You? _You're_ Dixon?” he laughed. “бог smiles on me today. You won't be getting that answer after all.”

He pulled the trigger.

John swore, his arm stinging as he ducked. The man cackled, and John swore again and again, trying to figure out when his life turned into an action movie with cliched russian villains, to boot. He ran as he did, shots pinging against the chairs and the concrete divider, some zinging past his hair. Aranski stopped, and whistled. “Come on, Dixon. I promise I would make it painless.”

“For crissakes, I just wanted to talk!” John screamed back, thankful that the echoes in the hall masked where he was. “Can’t we just _talk?_ I was even going to pay you!”

"We talked, you told me you were Dixon. Now…you die." He shot in what he _thought_ John’s general direction was, but John had already moved a few paces to the left. He popped up from his hiding place and aimed for the only source of light and Aranski’s silhouette, and fired.

His aim was spot on, and Aranski staggered back towards the railing, and leaned back. He raised his arm, seemingly to fire again, but instead he lost his balance, fell off the balcony, and crashed to the ground below.

John ran towards the railing, and leaned over to look at the man, hoping his only lead was still breathing. He shone his torch down on the man, and Aranski was sprawled on his back, facing up, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath his corpse.

_Fuck._

John ran out of the cinema and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no promises this time, but you guys ought to know that the next chapter really is half written. So let's all cross our fingers and hope real life doesn't interfere too much again! Thank you for reading - tell us what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait guys. We've been detained by the horrors of real life. Really. I mean it sounds like such a lame excuse but it's just how it is. This chapter got so long, we decided to break it up. The next part is done but will be posted in a week. Also, just to let you guys know - reckon we're halfway through the fic. Still a long way to go, but we're doing our best!
> 
> -Jaeh

 

_23 October_

One of them was enough.

Sally Donovan stood in the cemetery, staring at the two stones standing in the green grass. The stones looked resolute, unyielding, and they stayed there and never moved, never strayed from each other.

That foolish, foolish doctor. Sally told him, she did. She warned him, hell, God forgive her, she taunted him. Sally told him that one day, there would be a dead body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one to put it there.

She just didn't think there'd be two of them, and that the other would be the person she'd warned to stay away. She even regretted that prank she pulled the first time around. It was a horrible thing to do, but she felt vindictive then, against the dead detective who shook up their life. When she saw the phone, she just wanted to hurt someone, to balance out all the crap that had happened to them the past few months. And she did, and she didn't even have the chance to properly apologise.

God, she felt so guilty sometimes that it hurt, but not quite, because the doctor's death wasn't her fault, and she knew that.

She clenched her fists, and sighed. She felt less vindictive now.

"I told you, John. I told you," Sally told the stone. "And I'm sorry."

She had the feeling that she was being watched, and she rubbed the feeling off her arms. Goosebumps had started to break out, and a chilly wind swept through the wide space. She hurried away from the grave. She was positive that no one else had been in the area, but the back of her neck prickled anyway. Her Gran would have said it was the 'spirits in the cemetery, haunting their resting place,' but Sally didn't believe in all that.

Back in her car, she swore. She had decided to visit during her lunch break, which ended five minutes ago, and needed to get back to the Yard. The newest case she was working was going nowhere and she'd stared at the lifts, half expecting the frea—Sherlock to swoop into the office and point out the things they'd been so stupid to miss. She'd felt a twinge of shame when she remembered that he wouldn't be walking into the Met ever again and neither would his doctor friend.

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't.

She drove back into the heart of London, desperate to leave that godawful place.

* * *

When Sally got back to the Met, she could see Seamus Anderson sitting at her desk, playing with a deck of cards. Things between them have been better ever since his wife decided she wanted an open marriage. Seamus had happily told her the news after quite a gory murder case somewhere in Whitechapel, and they celebrated and comforted each other in Sally's flat afterwards.

Sally, of course, was perfectly fine with that; she wasn't interested in breaking them up or marrying Seamus. They had a good time together, that's all.

"You better not bend any of those, it's a new deck," she said, walking over. She sat on the edge of her desk, and Seamus leaned over with a grin.

"Do you want to see a card trick?" Seamus teased, shuffling the deck flashily. He winked at Sally, who laughed, and put it away in the box. "Did you have a good break?"

"It was all right, yeah. Traffic was horrible," Sally said, leaving out her trip to the cemetery. No one needed to know she was there. Closure.

She smiled to herself. To absent friends.

She glanced around the office, looking around at the other desks. Her colleagues chatted into phones and hunched over paperwork, all in all, a slow day for their division. Which was a  _good_  thing, since one didn't really want murders happening every week in London, job security be damned. Satisfied, she gazed around the office again, as if to reassure herself that people were still there. Her eyes stopped on the strangely empty desk in front of Lestrade's office. Now that she thinks about it, she hadn't seen that desk's detective in a few days. "Do you know if Paul's on leave? I don't remember him mentioning going on holiday," she asked, drawing her brows together. "Doesn't he have work to do?"

"Don't we all," muttered Seamus, eliciting a smile from Sally. He beamed back, and nodded in reply to Sally's question. "Greg's been asking about him as well, actually. He has some paperwork due tomorrow and Greg doesn't have the time to do it for him this week, especially with the paperwork piled up on him due to the whole… incident," Seamus finished. They both knew what 'incident' he was referring to.

"Huh," considered Sally, and frowned at Seamus. "Is it me, or is that a bit odd?"

"Quite," said Seamus, and he stood up. "I think I should really head back to the lab—got a bit of paperwork to do myself."

Sally heard him, but she didn't really react. Her mind was going back to the last conversation she had with Paul, talking about Sherlock Holmes and how odd the man was, and how everything, every crime he'd solved,  _especially_  that last one, seemed to be too conveniently  _easy_  for him to solve, and how the one with the Ambassador's children were quite in the same vein. How did he even know about the footprints? And the candy, and where they were hidden? It was all too  _convenient_  and  _easy_  while the rest of the squad puttered about having a hard time solving murders and they were  _trained_  for it. She voiced out as such to Seamus, who'd sat beside her to listen.

"He was right, of course—we have to consider every possible angle, and it was obviously the work of a mad genius who thought he could play with the police, and Sherlock definitely fit. Reminds me a bit of the bomber case—remember how he just disappeared on us, the perp?" She vaguely registered Seamus nodding in response. "It was a bit like that. And that got me thinking, what  _if_  he'd done it? He knew too much about it and it seemed quite impossible. I had to consider it.

"I was just doing my job," Sally said, almost sad, but mostly indignant.

"Yes, you were.  _We_  were," said Seamus. "We were supposed to consider all angles, and it fit. It just  _fit_  neatly, like that cover on the jam in the fridge. It's the wrong lid, but it fit."

Sally glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "You  _were_  the one who lost the lid to the jar, weren't you? I've finally got the suspect to confess."

Seamus grinned at her sheepishly, and looked at Paul's desk. "It was still the wrong lid, and though it fit neatly, we were wrong." An odd look settled on Seamus's face, like he was contemplating something, but Sally paid it no mind. He was probably just thinking about what happened.

She hummed in agreement. "Yeah, Sherlock's alibi was sound, and it wasn't him."

Seamus placed a hand on Sally's thigh, patting her comfortingly. She placed a hand over his. "I thought it was a good theory. It was a sound theory, considering all the evidence, Detective Sergeant," Seamus said.

Sally nodded at him. "It was. It really was."

* * *

"We are doing everything we can to determine what happened, and we are positive that we will have the answers soon. Thank you."

John clicked the telly off, his fingers tightening around the remote. He massaged his forehead with his other hand, sighing.

The body had been found a couple of days ago by some kids who decided to do a little exploring in the abandoned cinema, and the media latched on to the suspicious death, complete with the sort of gunshot mystery that movies love recycling. 'Joe Bloggs Cinema Shootout', the media had sensationally called it. John had been careful, but he was nervous about leaving any sort of clues that might point to him, dead man walking, literally and figuratively. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Other people would point out how messed up it was that John was more concerned with being caught than by the fact that he'd just killed a man. John would point out that as much as he didn't like taking lives, his conscience would not be plagued by killing an assassin who would have killed someone he cared about greatly if told to. The only thing he regretted was that he didn't get more information out of Aranski before his death.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Henry poked his head in. "Thomas and Connally are here."

John gave a nod, and followed Henry downstairs. Everyone had been busy—John wasn't the only one Thomas and Connally had been caught up with after all, and Henry had a new business venture he was trying to help take flight.

What the movies always failed to show people was when working on a case, on  _anything_  like this? There was a  _lot_  of downtime. A lot of time when you just have to sit down and patiently wait for anything new to come up. John had learnt that when he was with Sherlock.

Not that it made it any easier.

Thomas and Connally had been fishing, but information had been a little elusive. Every now and again, they would get rumours of someone from Moriarty's organisation (or rumoured to be part of) being killed or hunted down, and John would get that inevitable text. He'd always get there just in time to witness a body strewn on the floor, or the police make an arrest.

Once, he had stumbled on a bloke who looked no more than 25 years old, bleeding into cement. As much as it wasn't Hector Dixon's problem, Doctor John Watson couldn't stop himself from at least giving the kid a chance to pull through. He screamed for help, looking around to spot someone, anyone, who could at least phone 999, but all he saw was a tall, dark blur dart around a far corner. He almost rose to follow, but the man in his care was dying and he couldn't simply  _leave_  him. He'd dialled 999 with his burn phone and left just as the paramedics arrived.

He watched from afar as they carted away a dead body, whose pulse just moments before fluttered weakly under his fingertips. The police was already setting up for their investigation, and in a few minutes a detective sergeant would be on the scene. John had remembered the dark blur, and had wondered for a second what if— _what if_  it was Sherlock Holmes he'd missed again. There were days when, despite the evidence they'd amassed, John felt like he was leading himself and everybody on some crazy wild-goose chase.

Sometimes, they would be doing inquiries into names provided by various contacts attracted by a few pounds worth of rewards. And there were a  _lot_  of names to sift through, and most of John's breaks from his job at Starbucks were spent doing legwork and research through some contacts of Thomas and Connally, or even Anderson's, and the occasional ones that he himself had. He wished there was a way to narrow it down, and regretted that he had to leave Sherlock's laptop behind and all the unsorted archives that he'd accumulated on various criminals. He even wished that he could simply ask Mycroft for help, but… he didn't quite want to go down that road. There was a reason why Mycroft didn't tell John in the first place, and John didn't even know what would happen if Mycroft found out he was doing  _this_.

He sat down on a chair in Henry's dining room, purposefully ignoring the obvious joke that he was sitting at a literally round table with all his 'knights' gathered to listen to him. There was something with that picture that John simply didn't like, and it wasn't just because the metaphor was so full of puns that it hurt.

"We might have a problem," he started, looking at everyone in turn. "Hector Dixon is in trouble." He'd sent out the word as soon as he had talked to Aranski but this was the first time that everyone could gather.

John shared what had happened between him and Aranski, sparing no detail. He told them of what Aranski had thought of Hector Dixon, of how he thought he was the one who was dismantling  _everything_.

"Obviously, it's not us, unless you lot have been doing some vigilante work behind my back, which I doubt," John finished. He looked around at the table, taking in the blank looks.

"Our detective has been moving pretty fast," Thomas said, his voice a bit distant. "Every time you reach a rumoured next appearance, something already happened and he was long gone."

"Last known sightings have been no help either, as we've seen," Connally pointed out helpfully. "There are simply no clues left behind. It's pretty ingenious really. I am impressed. Very impressed. Super sleuth makes for a brilliant criminal too."

John winced at the thought of Sherlock being a criminal, but Connally didn't appear to have noticed. John coughed to cover the awkward silence made up in his own head. "In any case, we should be careful about using Hector Dixon. It's good, I suppose, to keep the target off Sherlock's back, but I don't want any of us to be in danger more than we already are."

"Maybe you should discard the name, John. It's compromised; we should lose it and make a new one," said Thomas.

"Not yet. It's useful as a red herring, as someone they have to chase instead of Sherlock," John said. It was likely that Sherlock wasn't traceable anyway, but every bit of help counts. And besides, maybe Sherlock would do something about Hector Dixon, maybe try to find out who he is, and that might really help. John sighed. He hated how complicated this was becoming, but that's the consequence of his choices. He hadn't regretted anything yet. "Hector Dixon is good and unidentifiable at the moment, since he keeps on 'changing' his face. Just be  _careful_ about using it. Use it strategically, and preferably only when we've decided to use it."

Thomas frowned at this, but nodded anyway. "We should get rid of it soon, though."

"We'll see." John looked pointedly at everyone, as if to say that the decision was final and the topic was closed. "We need someone to talk to the Network."

"Network?" Connelly asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The Homeless Network. They might know where Sherlock is. It's possible that Sherlock had kept his contacts live during the rest of the months, and some of them might have some information," John said.

"Ah,  _that_  network." Connelly glanced at Thomas. "I keep telling you, it's not such a bad idea. I should monopolise connections back home, what do you think?"

"It means settling down, Connelly. I didn't think you were a huge fan of setting up roots," replied Thomas. "It appears useful, however. You have your own version of it, don't you?"

Connelly looked thoughtful. "Ah, yes."

John watched the exchange placidly, and folded his hands on the table. "Will you talk to them, Connelly?"

"Me? No." Connelly said, shrugging. "I don't talk to contacts whom I don't know. It's not a good work practice."

John blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not going to do it," Connelly said with a finality.

"Then—"

"Right, John, even I have limits." Thomas said, before John could even finish asking. "Look, I know you have me on retainer, but trust me, I'm a bad idea. I can blend in, but I am  _obviously_  not a Londoner or anyone from this country. It would be more obvious to Holmes's network— people like them get really good at observing marks and targets and people. And my face isn't exactly forgettable. I can fake it well enough, but not for this crowd."

John sighed, and looked to Henry. "Henry, I know that you've been more than helpful, but… but I need your help once more."

"Me? John, I can't, you know I can't. I can barely even talk to you lot!"

John smiled at Henry placatingly. There was no one else he could trust for the job. It wasn't like he could simply go out and talk to the Network—they would recognise him in a heartbeat. "All right, all right, you don't have to do it. It's fine," he said, looking pointedly at Thomas and Connelly. Thomas tipped his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, understanding what John wanted. They needed to reason with Henry. He would be safe. John would be shadowing him all the way. He was just sorry to have to do this.

John stood up, and evidently, everyone understood it was a dismissal. He went into the kitchen and left Henry in the hands of Connelly, while he searched the fridge for something to eat. He made a mental note to go shop for additional biscuits, since he didn't want to take Henry's stash. That just felt like a step too far, he told himself wryly. Like he hadn't thrown himself over cliff by killing himself already, and asking Henry to fund him.

He would pay Henry back eventually, he promised himself.

Thomas followed him into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter. "Molly sends her regards. Well. She doesn't really, since you're supposed to be dead."

John put the packet of crisps he retrieved on the side of the toaster, and turned to face Thomas. "Do you have anything for me on Molly?"

"I just want to…" He sighed, and massaged the back of his neck. "I just want to tell you,  _reassure_  you, that I'm not toying with Molly. She really is a nice, strong person, and she deserves better. Plus she has a really adorable cat." Thomas gave a slight grin. "I also learned that Sherlock has been crashing off and on at her flat, although not at the moment, it seems. There was men's clothing hidden in one of the boxes in the corner of the guest room, and the laundry had a few men's articles in there." Thomas put a hand up. "Of course, she doesn't know I've been snooping. I might check her phone now and again, but she deletes every message."

John sighed. "Just… just be  _nice_  to her, all right? She's been through enough. She's been helping Sherlock way more than she has to, and now I'm—" John gave a harsh exhale "—dead, she probably… feels guilty for… not telling me." John massaged the bridge of his nose. "Life is complicated."

"Tell me about it."

John's mobile beeped from his pocket, and he retrieved his 'John' phone and read the message.

**Might b an informant for M in the station but he's gone now. No 1 knows where he is; maybe u should look in2 it. I have his files right here, pick up on the 26th in the station. Send sum1. This is Anderson btw.**

"Hang on," John said. He blinked at Thomas disbelievingly. "We might have a lead, an  _actual_  lead, of the person who got assigned to Greg."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, we're editing and expanding chapters one & two. Those will be updated before chapter nine and you'll want to go back and read the newer, better versions :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the next part, posted early (a rarity for us). IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE NEW CHAPTER SEVEN, GO READ IT FIRST. Also, please be sure to read the note at the bottom of the chapter. Enjoy!

_Friday, 26 October, 12:59_

_  
_Mummy had always said that whenever Sherlock deemed Mycroft worthy of helping him, the two made an excellent team. They never denied it—even Sherlock understood the advantages of working with the “enemy”. Though they never seemed to get along well, the brothers’ animosity towards each other was mostly regular sibling rivalry and behaviour enhanced by show, at least on Mycroft’s part. From an early age, the two brothers knew that they were one of a kind, and they’d understood each other. It only made sense to work together in the face of the world who never understood them.

So when Sherlock flagged an entity called Hector Dixon as a threat, Mycroft cast out his net far and wide to catch the man. Agents that could be spared for the task had been working diligently, day and night, for a week, trying to discover any valuable information on who the man was. They reported to him directly, for even if there were many things that matter more than his little brother, family—not to mention Sherlock’s mission—was too important to delegate. 

Mycroft had been taking tea in the Diogenes Club when he received word from one of the newer agents he’d been grooming to become a regular part of his staff. He had been surprised to learn that the infamous "Hector Dixon" had strolled into the Metropolitan police station. This man was proving to be rather difficult to find information on, even with Mycroft’s resources. He was using an alias, obviously, and it seemed to be a rather well disguised one. Whoever had made it was very talented. 

When his agent in the Met sent a message that Seamus Anderson had a Hector Dixon coming to pick up something, Mycroft dispatched two of his agents to pick up Dixon. He leaned on his umbrella as he waited, adopting a pose similar to when he first arranged to meet with John Watson.  Mycroft watched his agents escort a relatively short but inconspicuous looking man towards the table in the middle of the large room. The shorter man stood straight, appearing used to the unknown and uncertain. With his mostly bald head and unassuming physique, he was the sort of person who would simply blend into the crowd. He seemed British, of course, as any intelligent self-respecting criminal would if they were pulling a job in Britain, but the well put-together image, almost manicured to perfection, screamed con artist. 

It intrigued Mycroft, even  _confused_  him, and that was not an easy feat. 

"Is that supposed to be intimidating? You cannot intimidate me, Suit."

Mycroft raised a brow before launching into the rather deficient information he'd gathered. "Hector Dixon, no records beyond a few years previous, and is rumoured to be asking questions about Sherlock Holmes. What, is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?" 

It was a shame that some of his least proficient recruits were the ones who took on most of the search. He needed to find people better at legwork, maybe move a few hands to other departments when they have ceased to be useful. If he didn’t need his assistant, he would have set her on the task. But, of course, there are other, more important things than a man’s interest in his brother.  

"What is  _your_  interest in Sherlock Holmes?” asked Hector. He looked at Mycroft through his thick and unusually shaped glasses, his eyebrows raised sardonically. He folded his arms. “Can't anyone be a fan anymore?" 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and examined the handle of his umbrella for a moment, and looked back at Hector. "You're deflecting, Mr Dixon. Look at your situation, consider your options. Should you choose to continue playing this game, things may end poorly for you." 

The man appeared to reconsider, folding his hands serenely in front of him. "What do you want, G-man? I want you to know that I've read Sun Tzu's Art of War and I'm immune to any words you might spin." 

Mycroft laughed briefly, knowingly. The man had just revealed his accent with a touch on the word ‘G-man’, not to mention that it was a mostly American term. "Ah, an American. Interesting. All I wish is an answer to my question and you'll be able to walk away." 

Hector frowned, and then sighed. It was like flicking a switch, and he seemed to slip out of his persona and relaxed a trifle. "Sherlock Holmes interests me,” he said, pausing briefly and adding, “A lot of things interest me. Is it a crime to ask around about someone?" 

"A crime? No, certainly not,” Mycroft stared at the man with one of his best, imperious glares, one that had cowed many ambassadors and politicians into doing his will and sent a lot of colleagues fleeing from the room. “It is suspicious however, when you begin poking around 5 months after his suicide. What interest do you have in a fraudulent detective?"

"Fraudulent people interest me." Hector simply glared back at Mycroft, not showing any alarm. He even looked like he was offended. "Why's a suit like you interested in people interested in fraudulent detectives?" 

"We have more in common than you might think. I'm merely an interested party." 

"Then why did you send your mini-suits to pick up a common guy like me?" Hector stared at Mycroft, and slowly smiled, as if he found a secret. “I know what you are. You’re one of  _them,_  right?"  

_Them_. Mycroft gave a mental sigh. Today was shaping out to be better than he thought. He just nabbed yet another conspiracy theorist. This was going to do wonders for his blood pressure. "If you know who I am, then you should know just what I am able to do." 

The man’s hand trembled slightly, the first sign of fear he had shown since meeting Mycroft. "If Sherlock Holmes is already dead, why would it matter if I start looking into him? You're making me rethink my position on the whole 'dead' thing, Mr G-Man." 

Mycroft shook his head, giving an empty laugh. "No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, could survive that fall.” He tried to rein in his sadness and exasperation at his brother’s antics, only letting a sliver of emotion touch his words, for authenticity’s sake. His brother did just ‘die’, after all. “I assure you, he is dead. I'd much rather the world ever forget there was a Sherlock Holmes." 

"Then why are you so interested?" the other man asked stubbornly, punctuating his question with finger jabs in the air. "Why are you so invested in this, Suit? 'The Man' wouldn't bother with Sherlock Holmes. He was just one man, and he didn't play into anything important. Oh-ho!" he exclaimed and raised his finger in sudden realisation, "Unless there's something else." 

"The motivations of the Government are none of your concern." 

Hector waved his arm around, almost knocking his own glasses off. He pushed them back up and said, "The motivations of the Government are totally  _my_  concern! Whatever sort of scheme you and your New World Order are fixing up, it is my duty as an enlightened citizen to stop it!" He gave Mycroft a small glare, and folded his arms. "Now, I don't know how Sherlock Holmes plays into it, but I'm having none of it!"

"Ah, but you are not a citizen of the British Nation, are you? You have not and will not be here long enough to apply for citizenship.” Mycroft made it sound like a threat worth being afraid of, and the man in front of him gulped. “Although I doubt someone such as yourself would bother."

"You're from the Illuminati who's controlling the New World Order, and your Order encompasses even my country. You just happen to be the tentacles beneath the British Government." Hector waved a hand at Mycroft. He raised an eyebrow, and glared intently, scrutinising Mycroft with his stare. "I'd be glad to see how Holmes plays into—Oh. I  _know_  you. I've heard of you. It’s you, isn’t it?" 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation. Conspiracy theorists were so predictable. He was going to be pointed out as yet again another tentacle running the operations, a dark force that everyone relied on. He has heard all of them, and not one had ever realised what he actually did. He was more than what they thought he was, and less than what they knew of him to be. 

Hector inhaled sharply, and a finger appeared to twitch, as if he wanted to point at Mycroft, but he did not. "You're Mycroft Holmes—I've heard of you.” There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, and a slow grin formed on his face. “So that's why you're so interested. I didn't know you were related!" 

Mycroft opened and closed his fist around the umbrella handle to keep his nerves at bay. His name wasn’t known in many circles. He was a shadow, an entity that no one really knew. He officially occupied a minor position; what he did  _unofficially_  was not public knowledge. This man knew who he was, that meant he was knee-deep in things that he wasn’t supposed to know —who  _exactly_  is Hector Dixon? 

Mycroft refused to let surprise show on his face. "Am I to assume you will continue reminding people of my brother's ignominy with your questions?" 

"I'm a conspiracy theorist, not alunatic," Hector said. He splayed his hands.  "And that is not the goal, nor is that my concern. I am just a—how did you put it? An interested party." Hector’s smile never left his face. “You don’t have to worry about me Mr Holmes, I promise.”

It was fast becoming clear that there was nothing Mycroft could get out of this man. Hector Dixon was an unknown and stubborn variable that Mycroft could not afford to let go, since he wasn’t sure whose side the man was even on. Anyone who looked closely at Sherlock’s so-called death need to be watched closely and deterred quickly. They had enough complications to work around and Mycroft was not comfortable having a conspiracy theorist free to investigate. He may come up with rather bizarre theories, or worse, the correct one. But Mycroft had no choice. He had to let Dixon go—there was no other action Mycroft could do but keep a close eye on him.

Mycroft placed his left hand into his pocket, and though shaded with disappointment, he leaned slightly on his umbrella and adopted a calm pose. "The car will take you wherever you wish, Mr Dixon."

"Good. Take me to the nearest bus station, please," Hector said,  flashed him a smug smile, and mock bowed. He shifted smoothly back into his English accent. "And I have to say, it's a pleasure to meet the British Government. But not really. Ta!" He climbed back into the car cautiously, and the car smoothly pulled out of the station as soon as the door shut.

Mycroft quickly turned to one of the agents standing behind him. “Did we get a clear enough picture of his face for facial recognition?” He’d had a hidden camera trained on the interview at all times, not only to get the man’s picture for the facial recognition software and further research, but Mycroft liked to re-watch his interviews again to gain further insight on the people he talked to.

The agent had gulped, and Mycroft knew something had gone wrong. “No, sir. Apparently his glasses had some sort of illumination that blinds the camera.” At least the man didn’t sound sheepish.

Mycroft had heard of the technology before. But as far as he knew, the scientists in Japan had not compacted their security glasses into less clunky hardware. Clearly, whoever Dixon was, he either had better contacts than Mycroft would have thought possible, or he had invented those himself.

If this was a different circumstance, he may have hired the man, or at least looked into acquiring pairs of those glasses for Her Majesty’s officers and agents. Mycroft, however, knew that the glasses were trumped by regular cameras. “Please tell me someone took his photo with a  _regular_  camera, at the very least. Even just with a mobile.”

There was silence. Mycroft ran through a litany of curses in every language he knew. They had lost him. Mycroft would get a sketch done of the man, but there was little chance that he would be able to properly search for him with just a measly sketch, not when Mycroft was not working through official channels.

He’d simply make sure that the agent assigned to watch Hector Dixon would be more reliable this time.

 

* * *

   
 _Saturday, 24 November, 18:22_

  
It had been 25 days, or three weeks and four days since the last lead they’d had. The last  _proper_  one, anyway, and trying to figure out what it meant did not count at all. Connally had been the one to retrieve the files from Anderson, and he’d even had an entertaining run in with Mycroft afterwards. John had a good laugh over that one, although Connelly had clearly been shaken. The con artist, however, good-naturedly admitted that it was thrilling to finally meet Big Brother. John corrected him that Mycroft held only a minor position in the British Government. Connelly had laughed at the joke.

As bright as that ray of cheer spiked through John’s search, it wasn’t enough. John was a relatively patient man, and he was able to really just  _wait_  if it was necessary, but this was really trying his patience.

He couldn’t help it, anyway. He’d been playing ‘dead’ for far too long and he didn’t know how people could handle it. Even if he didn’t leave much behind, looking over his shoulder most of his every waking moment was taking its toll, and he just really wanted to find Sherlock to get this over and done with because some days, he was just so tired.

Being found out, well,  _almost_  found out, on the bus that afternoon didn’t help either. It had been too close for comfort, but the elderly chap had reminded him why he did this, all of this, in the first place. Sherlock, he’d been looking for Sherlock. His loyalty to the detective was strong enough that he’d follow him to hell and back—which, John thought, he was actually already doing. He sighed and fumbled with his keys, eyes roaming around first to check if anyone was following him. He’d keep on if there were.

John quickly unlocked the door to 44 Eaton Square and stepped into the relative safety of the house. Tired from his job, John yearned for the days he was able to take a nap in the flat of 221B, relaxing in front of the telly and just being able to really rest. Sighing slightly, he began the climb upstairs to the bedroom, ready to change and get to his  _real_ work again, hoping to hit an actually useful bit of information this time around as he read through Paul Crook’s file for what felt like the fiftieth time. 

A small thud from the direction of the bedroom broke through his thoughts, and John grabbed his gun from under his shirt before continuing. He turned the door handle slowly, fully expecting to see anyone from a regular robber to someone from Moriarty's organisation, who found out he was alive and was there to remedy that.

When he caught sight of the intruder, he briefly wondered if anyone actually died anymore. Maybe ghosts  _were_  real. "Don't move, Miss Adler," he almost whispered, levelling the gun at the woman from a safe distance. He knew that The Woman was good at self-defence, and didn’t quite want to chance grappling with her for the gun.

"Well, this is a surprise," said Irene, raising her hands slowly, gently dropping her package on the floor. "May I turn around,  _Mr Dent_?" John could hear the smirk playing about on her lips.

He watched Irene as she looked over her shoulder, smiling at John. Her hair was now honey blonde,  falling in waves down her blue shirt. She looked so... different, wearing clothes that didn’t seem like they just came off the runway, but just out of Debenhams. She still looked beautiful, but somehow it wasn’t as severe as she was before.

"Are you carrying one of those sedatives on you? I don't fancy being drugged out of my mind thanks," he said, not moving the gun a centimetre.

Irene turned slowly as she replied, "Carrying nothing, Dr Watson." She looked John up and down with a slight smile. It rather felt like Irene was giving him a mental pat down, and it was decidedly unnerving. "I thought I would be able to handle Arthur Dent with what I can do. I didn't expect  _John Watson_  to be the same man."

"Yes, well, you and Sherlock aren't the only ones who can play dead." John ground out and dropped his arms, the gun’s barrel angled to the floor. He relaxed slightly but was still on guard. He wasn’t sure about Irene, he had  _never_  been sure about Irene, and her presence here kept him on edge, especially after what happened. He was not willing to trust the woman who played Sherlock while working for Moriarty.

Irene lowered her hands and made her way out of the wardrobe, pushing John back a little with a hand. “Put away your gun, Doctor Watson, I am not going to bite.” 

John shook his head and put the gun away. 

Irene smiled at him and spoke again, "Welcome to our little dead people’s club, Doctor. You look good for a dead man. How's Sherlock?"

"And you look good for a woman who was executed in Karachi. What are you here for, Irene?" He ignored the question about Sherlock quite pointedly.

She  _knew_  something. Irene Adler  _knew_  something about what was going on, John was positive.

"I had left something behind. I had to leave in a hurry, but I'll try again later."

Irene sat on the bed, running her hands on the duvet. She looked up at John. "Enough about me, Doctor, I'm curious about you. Does Sherlock even know, or did you decide to play hide and seek with him too?"

"Get what you came for and forget you saw me," he said. Although, she already knew Sherlock was alive. Irene Adler might be the closest thing to a lead he'd had in nearly a month. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was  _desperate_. "You've seen him, then? Did you two stop for tea and biscuits, have a nice little chat about playing dead?"

"We finally had dinner. Who knew the push he needed was to die." A smug smile formed on her lips. She disappeared into the dressing room with her small bag. She clearly didn’t want John to know what it was she was grabbing.

She’d seen Sherlock, and they’ve had  _dinner,_  whatever that meant. A million questions popped into his head, filling him for almost the first time with doubt. The urge to just walk away, end this, end everything and just leave, forget Sherlock Holmes had ever invited him to a bloody crime scene. Maybe Connally wrong, and Sherlock had just been running away.

No. Sherlock wouldn’t do that. John sighed to himself. He was tired, and he was fast approaching desperation, and he was impatient, and Irene was not helping his nerves at all. John took a deep breath, clutching the duvet between fingers to calm down.

"He needed help, and I owed him a favour," Irene said as she walked out. She eyed John curiously, and pursed her lips. "He never told you he was alive, did he?"

John scoffed. "No, he forgot to mention it between his stepping off a roof and before I followed after him, like I always ended up doing,” he said, pausing to take a deep breath. This wasn’t Irene’s fault. “He didn't happen to tell you what his plans were, did he?" he asked with a weary sigh.

"I promised not to tell, crossed my heart and hoped to die." Her smile wavered a little. "But I told him to tell you. That man never listens to anyone. Sometimes he thinks he's carrying the world on his shoulders and no one can help him. Damaged indeed." She smiled to herself. "I told him that even gods bleed, and he was no exception."

He knew that he would probably regret this, but it didn't stop him from asking. Irene had seen Sherlock, talked to him—she would know, at least have a clue where the man was. And John was  _desperate_.  "Help me find him then. He needs help, even if he doesn't want to admit it, the bloody git."

"So he does," she said, her mouth quirked in amusement. Despite the amused smile, her eyes were serious. "What's in it for me if I helped you, Doctor?"

"I suppose I would owe you a favour, wouldn't I?"

Irene touched a finger to her lips in apparent thought. "Fair enough. Consider me in your employ. What do you need, Mr Dent?" She smiled. "Should we be doing this in Mr Dent's flat? People might talk. 

John smiled briefly at the familiar phrase. "It doesn’t matter. Mr Dent is fictional, after all.” He leaned back. “I need information. On Sherlock, or Moriarty. Or anything  _relevant_  to Sherlock. We need…” He stopped to breathe in, calming himself. He was starting to babble, and he didn’t want his desperation to show. “We need any leads. Anything will help.”

Irene nodded thoughtfully. “I will see what I can do. One good turn for another—I owed Sherlock my life multiple times over. Consider this as my final payment to him, as well.” She smirked, and glanced at the watch. “It was nice to catch up, Doctor, but I have an appointment. I will be the one to contact you.” She held a hand to John’s lips before he could protest. “And as much as you don’t trust me, I promise I will help before I have to leave London.”

Irene stood, and turned towards the door. John followed her down to the front door, but before she opened it, she turned around to look at John. "John, for what it’s worth, I'm sorry for what Sherlock did. For someone like him, he forgets to think and observe," she said and smiled sadly. "See you soon, Mr Dent."

 

* * *

__  
Tuesday, 4 December  
  


It was early morning, far too early even for John. His shift didn’t start until nine, his alarm didn’t even ring until seven, but the mobile had started ringing loud enough to echo throughout the whole room. John groped to his right and the vibrating phone, not paying attention to which one it was, and hoped he’d pressed the right button.

The man on the other line didn’t even wait for him to say something, instead launching immediately into his tirade. “Do you know what I found today? Your face, plastered all over the crime scene photos from yesterday, right after Lestrade gathered us in a meeting and blew up at the whole team out of frustration! He was swearing, under his breath, that he was going absolutely bonkers that he’s seeing dead people walking around London.” Anderson, his mind helpfully supplied. It was Anderson, screaming in his ear at around four in the morning. John briefly considered just turning the mobile off again. “What the hell was that, John?”

Then Seamus’s words finally sunk in and John was wide awake.

“I was on my break!” John blurted out. “It wasn’t like I was there on purpose!” He knew he sounded indignant, but it really wasn’t his fault. He was only meant to buy a sandwich from that shop. He didn’t orchestrate to be at the scene of that crime any more than he’d arranged to murder the poor man who got shot.

He hadn’t known that the crime scene photographer would take pictures of the crowd, as well. He knew that they had personnel do that sometimes, in case the suspects return to the scene of the crime. It was just his luck that his photo was taken before he’d left.

“Right, and hanging around until my boss saw you was accidental as well?”

The sarcasm dripping from Anderson’s voice was getting on John’s nerves. It was much too early for anything like this. “Do not lecture me, Anderson,” he growled, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Clearly not because if they didn’t hand me the bloody photos for processing before handing them over to someone who knows you well, say, Sally, or hell,  _Lestrade—_ you’d be absolutely  _fucked_  you know that?”

“Then good for me that I have a contact in the Met then, yeah?” 

Anderson huffed loudly, and it finally sunk in for John that there was clear distress in Anderson’s voice, emphasised even through the phone call. John’s anger sobered up at the tone, and his voice softened. “Ta, really. It’s just been insane lately. It’s been dangerous as hell –”

“You’re not the only one whose neck is on the line here mate—I signed the papers that declared you fucking dead!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” John sighed. “I’m sorry, all right, I know it’s difficult back home, but it’s done, and it’s just a hiccup.”

Anderson sighed as well. “Just… take care. Try not to run into Lestrade again. You’re not the one who has to watch the aftermath.” His voice turned to steel, emphasizing Greg’s name. John knew that he was supported by his team even when everything was shot to hell during Sherlock’s arrest and death.

“I’ll be more careful. Thank you, Anderson—Seamus. Thank you.” John ended the call, and buried his face back into the pillow. He had to be more careful next time not to run into anyone from back home. It seemed like London was not as big as he’d thought.

 

* * *

 

It was surprisingly slow, for a Starbucks on a cold December morning. John was pumping chocolate syrup into a cup when he heard the door open. Looking up, he swore under his breath when he saw that it wasn't just another customer, but Irene Adler. She was supposed to meet him away from the shop. His colleague Karen was working the register. "Hello, welcome to Starbucks. Would you like to try our Peppermint Hot Chocolate?"

"Do I get to use his employee discount?" Irene asked with a sweet smile, gesturing at John. She winked at Karen.

John swore mentally at the look Karen gave him. He'd already heard his younger colleagues gossiping about what happened at the Clark's two days ago; they didn't need more fuel for the fire. Gathering himself, John nodded. "That's fine, Karen. This is my, um… my friend Eileen," he said before finishing the drink he'd been working on. "Mind if I take a break to chat with her?"

Karen gave him a small, slow, disbelieving nod, and Irene made her way around to the counter's exit to meet John. "No, really, Arthur, a bit of a drink would be lovely. It's quite chilly outside," she said, laying her sweet voice on quite thickly.

Caught up in his irritation at Irene, John did half an About Turn before remembering where he was and turned less stiffly. He grabbed two to-go cups, filled them with black coffee and handed one to Irene in complete silence before walking around the counter to join her. "Let's move this outside. I'd like to get some fresh air."

She followed him to one of the open air tables, and sat down on one of the chairs. "Hello, Arthur. How have you been?"

"Working tirelessly," he said, walking around the table to sit before continuing. "Why are you here?" John looked around the area, trying to spot any potential eavesdroppers or assassins. He was feeling a bit more paranoid than usual after the other day. It had been too close.

Irene leaned forward, fluttering her eyelashes at John. To everyone else, it might have appeared rather sweet, a woman staring at her partner as she visited him at work. Irene was having fun putting on her little show. "I thought I might drop by, ask how you're doing with your little project, Arthur. I did promise to help, and I am available for any questions. I don’t quite know what you’re looking for, after all."

John reached a hand back to rub the back of his neck, feeling the all the stress of the past few months. He stared at Irene, wondering if she could be of any help. After all, the woman had been 'dead' far longer than either he or Sherlock.  "Not well, now that you mention it."

Irene raised her eyebrows, hiding her smile in the mug as she sips. "All right, since I did promise to help a little before I had to leave.’

John fished his mobile out of his pocket and opened a file and handed her the phone. "Do you know who he is?" he asked, unwilling to trust Irene with the information he already had.

Irene glanced at the phone, and looked away, her mouth slightly curved in a disgusted frown. "Oh, him."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe Irene showing up wasn't the worst thing that could have happened if she could tell him anything about the Detective Sergeant's other activities. John blanched mentally. Christ, not those activities. His link to Moriarty. "So you do know him," he said, resisting the urge to ask if she knew what he liked.

"Far too much, yes." When she saw  _that_  look on John's face, she snickered. "I have no desire to ever  _know_ him. The man seems genial and agreeable, but he is a cold-hearted, cruel man, even for an assassin." Irene rubbed at her arms to keep back a bit of a sudden chill that crawled under her skin. "I was under his surveillance for a few months, a while back. I owed Jim a favour, and it was a while before I could repay him." 

"You're absolutely sure this is him? One of Mo— _his_  assassins?" John asked, leaning forward. Paul Crook would have been in perfect position to watch Greg, if he was part of Moriarty's organisation. If Sherlock was alive and hunting down Moriarty's network, this man would probably end up on the list. John needed to find him, get information about the other sniper, the sniper who was assigned to take John out that day, and hope to finally find his best friend.

"Yes." Irene said, unblinkingly. "He was last sent out on undercover work in the Met, I heard."

"Irene, I could kiss you."

Irene gave him a slightly predatory smile, brushing a bit of his lengthening hair out of John's eyes. She was well aware of John's co-workers unabashedly watching them from inside the shop now. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Arthur?"

"You could pass me my mobile," he said with a small grin. He felt lighter than he had for days, weeks even, ever since that failed meeting with the first sniper. He wasn't going to let it happen again though. He only had three chances here before he was back at square one, with no idea who to chase after.

She slowly handed it over, placing the phone in John's hand, her fingers brushing his palm. She winked at him, just to keep up the show 'Arthur's' coworkers were watching, and then she moved slightly to hide her face, and John's expression from the onlookers. "Aren't you curious?" she then asked, with a serious face.

John turned his face toward her slightly, his brow furrowed. He was already fairly certain what Crook was sent to the Met to do, but letting Irene confirm it might not be a horrible idea. "You know what he was there to do?"

"You know why he was there, what he needed to do. You don’t need me for that." A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Have you ever thought of what Sherlock might be doing while he's playing dead?"

"I've an idea," he said, leaning back and looking through the shop window. He wasn't surprised to see Karen and Jo watching them, though they looked away quickly when they saw he was able to see them.

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing about him lately, but knowing why he jumped, I think he's trying to make sure it's safe to come back." If he wants to come back, John thought. It was almost one step forward and two steps back when he thought about Sherlock Holmes.

"I don’t  know how you put up with him. He was incorrigible. Ghastly flatmate." Irene shook her head. "I kept on finding blood all over the sofa. Most not from him." She looked up at John. "He's putting an end to all of it, you know. Turning them in, dispatching them himself if necessary," she murmured, sipping from her now-tepid coffee. "It might help, if you knew what he is doing."

"He wondered how I put up with him too," John said, remembering the obnoxious notes Sherlock left in his scrapbook. Who knew he'd turn into an avenging angel. "There was a murder here, only two days ago. Do you think...?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell. You know him better than anyone else. I did not know half of what he did, while he was there. All I knew was that he was busy dismantling an Empire. As far as I knew, he would rather turn them in for their crimes than put a bullet through their head. But I merely provided him a place to stay, and information as he needed." Irene said, almost wistfully. "It was interesting, while it lasted. I had to move afterwards. New York lost its sparkle."

John cleared his throat and looked at the time. They'd been talking for quite a few minutes, and he’d exhausted his break time. "You've been very helpful and I'm grateful for it, but I need to get back to work. Goodbye, Ms Adler."

Irene stood up slowly, smoothing down her skirt. She smiled almost demurely at John, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, John," she whispered, and crossed the street, disappearing into the crowd.

John sat there for a while, contemplating on the file that Connally had picked up from Anderson on one of the officers in Lestrade’s department. He’d read the file over and over again, and there was nothing overtly suspicious that he could catch, but Anderson must have had a conversation with someone in the team, maybe Sally, that drew him to the conclusion. John’s conversation with Irene had confirmed Anderson’s suspicions, and all that was left for John was to look for the man that would connect him to Moriarty, and subsequently, get him back to finding Sherlock. 

And John was going to find him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaeh here. I apologise for the bit of Sherlock and Irene maybe-shipping-maybe-not in there. It’s totally my fault. My happy headcanon is Sherlock stayed with Irene for a bit just to get his bearings in the US - shipping optional. Eh, just a scenario in my head, poking fun with the idea. Irene did owe him a favour. 
> 
> Sidenote from Manda aka Shwatsonlocked: I don’t ship it. At all. Which is why it’s optional. 
> 
> We were joking around and ended up rhyming a ton, so we thought we’d show you our update poem: 
> 
> Provided life doesn't get in the way (and it does do that, we’re sorry to say)
> 
> We will update fairly soon, not just once in a blue moon.
> 
> We will update when it's hot, We will update when it's not.
> 
> We will update with a frown, We will not update upside down.
> 
> We will update for a boon, you won't need to wait til June.
> 
> We will update for no fee, We will update just for thee.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for sticking with us! We will be updating chapters 1&2 with newer versions, which have been expanded because of reasons. When those are updated, Anderson's name will be the same throughout the entire fic. Moira was a joke name and we decided it really didn't fit in the story. It is, however, his _middle_ name.


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